The line I let be

I dread the day humans invented the clock.

Every hall, every room, right when I enter my office or leave a long lecture, there it is, ever so conspicuous, always looking down on me. And me? A constant vortex of movement, forever chasing and yet never arriving. Hours to earn, minutes to optimize, and seconds fluidly slipping from my grip.

I began to fear losing time the minute I learned to measure it.

When I was a child, before the time monster had gotten hold of me, the days stretched endlessly. Afternoons so golden and forgiving. How did I know the day was coming to an end? My mother’s yell, asking me to come to dinner for the fifth time. And even after that, I had a myriad of things to tire myself with before finally resting for another day. I drew funny-looking portraits of my loved ones. I read in the soft idleness of thought. I named the stones I collected during my time in the playground that day and painted faces on them, however amusing.

Now that I think of it, that was my leisure. A time of the day when I simply did things that brought me joy. I often think of these memories with a tinge of melancholy, the nostalgia flashing like photographs left too long in the sun.

I sometimes feel like leisure was the friend we abandoned along the way. Not dead, just left behind.

One would think that it’s angry at us. Well, it should be. After all, we traded it for productivity when we began measuring our lives’ worth with the number of checks on a to-do list. But leisure is patient. It waits for us in unread books, on the corner of an unexplored street, or just beside us, in the silence between notifications.

For some reason, we always think that we must earn leisure, but it asked for nothing. There is such urgency in this realization that I would like to emphasize. Because time is finite, and life is not measured in tasks completed but in moments felt. Because in the end, when memories shift through everything, we will hardly recall the frantic emails or the rushed deadlines that nearly pushed us over the edge. What we will remember is the sweet cup of tea we enjoyed one slow morning, the shared laughter that erupted after a game of Pictionary, the verse of a poem we read in our quiet apartment, or even the pasta we made while browsing a recipe from a cookbook as Jeff Buckley played in the background. We will remember the solace of leisure.

This is also the part where I believe that the abandonment of leisure intertwines with the abandonment of hobbies. What once existed unburdened by purpose now has an expectation tied to it. Hobbies were safe because we didn’t have to be good at them to enjoy doing them. No pressure to succeed, no audience to impress, no profit to extract.

Today, we live in times where hobbies are rarely allowed to stay small or personal. “Why aren’t you doing more with this?” I often get asked when I crack open my dried and dusty watercolor palette. As if joy felt alone is wasteful, or time enjoyed is time wasted.

But sometimes, however, the voice in my head does get louder, and something strange happens. I start asking what my hobby can give me in return.

Can it make money? Can it become content? Can it become a side hustle? Can it be monetized?

And just like that, I close my palette. The joy is gone. It transforms from a sacred personal practice into another obligation I must fulfill, another performance I must put on display for others, and leisure is swallowed by productivity once again.

When we stop playing, stop experimenting, stop starting, it feels safer to consume than to create. It becomes safer to scroll than to try. We trade curiosity for comfort and forget how to begin something without the burden of finishing it within a predefined time.

When did we decide that doing something purely because we enjoy doing it was not enough?

And it makes me wonder, heavyheartedly, what will we be nostalgic for in fifty years? What memories will we think are worth being nostalgic over? Will we lament rushing from one responsibility to another? Or spreadsheets? Inboxes? Hours upon hours of mindless scrolling? Or working endlessly for goals we barely remember caring about?

Will there be a gaping hole in our nostalgia? I’m petrified by this thought.

I try, sometimes, to befriend leisure once again, without any expectations. I turn off my phone and sit with discomfort until I open my drawer full of abandoned hobbies. They look at me in utter surprise, and me at them, as if I am looking into another version of myself I once was. At first, my mind rebels. There’s no point in doing this. There are other things to get on top of that are more important. And I have to remind myself that the point is that there is no point.

I finally pick up my old box of colored pens. The ink is streaky, drying with age. I sort through them clumsily and open my old sketchbook. The pages are yellowed with time and I sit at my desk.

The pens are hesitant, and so am I. My skills have gone rusty, but I draw a line. I erase it immediately, realizing the ever-so-little progress I had made is now gone. I feel heavy and want to put the cap back on, but I fight through it. I begin drawing mindlessly, not caring how the end result is going to look. I’m drawing my uncle, a familiar, cherished face. I feel it then, my chest loosening. Heck, I’m not gaining anything from it. I’m simply doing it, and it brings me joy.

I’m carried away with this feeling. I pick another color and another and scribble some more. It doesn’t need to be perfect. It just needs to exist.

That’s when I think to myself, I feel so free.

The clock is still ticking. Time is moving forward, indifferent to my resistance. But this time, it doesn’t feel like a monster. Not fearsome, but a companion savoring it just as much as I am. Watching me idly, not pulling me along.

Perhaps we can be friends again, leisure and I. It just takes small acts of rebellion, doing things I enjoy without having to justify them.

The clock may be ticking, but I don’t have to keep running. Not every line needs a purpose, some just exist because I drew them.