Einstein wanted a simple, everyday scenario to serve as an analogy to his claim regarding time. He came up with this comparison: if you were to sit in a boring lecture, straining to stay awake, then every minute could feel like an hour; yet if you were to sit across from a gorgeous man or women, each hour would feel like minutes.
Now, that analogy works to a certain extent, but I could extend that to another scenario. Weekends. Weekends are illusions of free time, time without liability; and without responsibilities, I lack the incentive to roll out of bed or, if by some miracle I do, be productive. In no time, Friday has gone by; Saturday has gone by; and Sunday night rolls around. At about 9pm Sunday night, I muster up the courage to glance at the clock, not the hour but the date on the clock. It reminds me of deadlines and of consequences.
I've heard that no matter how high or how drunk, if you hear the word "cops", you receive an instant burst of adrenaline that snaps you out of trance. The word "Sunday" displayed in bright white LED lights snaps me out of my two-day somnambulism, catapulting me back to a world where responsibility exists.
Time fleets. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday might seem like a boatload of time, until that boat sinks under the weight of reality. Yet, despite realizations every Sunday night and despite self-promises to manage time better, I still find myself stuck in the quagmire of procrastination. Energy just doesn't seem to come to me, no matter how fervently I call upon it. I sink deeper and deeper, every week, as residual tasks I put off pile into mountains of debt.
I gave it some thought. It could be me, but it could also be the environment I submerge myself in. Maybe next year, when people I surround myself are those of high-productivity, I could be rejuvenated by the collective aura of energy, impelling me to become a productive version of myself, which in turn radiates energy in a positive feedback loop.
Or perhaps that's just another excuse I make for my own indolence.