Remember being a child, and believing that a year felt like an eternity? The sun would freeze over and the ocean would fade away by the time you become an adult? The older I’ve gotten, the more and more this illusion fades away and an even more potent deception deepens. Relative time, not to be confused with Einstein’s famous theory, is the idea that the perceived speed of time is unique to each person and their experiences. You know, how time passes when you’re working vs. when you’re off. With each passing year, my relative time’s speed increases by a fraction, ever so slightly. Too small to be noticed at that instant. Yet years later, it feels as though so much time has slipped away. Lost but retained somewhere within me. Where the hell did it all go? Time, I’ve learned, didn’t go anywhere. I let it pass by. Time is a constant in a sea of variables, its current cannot be distorted. It’s all in my head. The periphery of my conscious mind was blocked. Lodged inside the tunnel of my subconscious, passively observing what little light passes through. To get out of the tunnel was to simply shed the past and live presently, outside of my head. It’s the mind that swipes away time. The unconsciousness that saps from consciousness, hoarding within its vast abyss. I believe consciousness can overthrow the unconsciousness, and lay conquest overhead.
I feel like I’m choking. My face, I can only imagine, is some embarrassingly bright shade of red. I was already sun-burnt from the past couple of days I had spent in the sun. I had just finished putting on my wet-suit. The hood came on next. The wet suit was already tight around my neck. Adding an extra five millimeters of thick, black, neoprene had not helped my breathing situation. The wet suit was a rental. It wasn’t exactly the custom-fit my brother and his best friend were sporting. They rubbed conditioner all over the inside of their second skin. Without the conditioner, it would be impossible to slide the wetsuits over their bodies. My brother was changing by his white Toyota Tacoma, truck. The bed was filled with boxes and crates of ocean-going gear. Mathieu, his best friend, was changing a few feet away from me in his small blue car. The car itself didn’t scream, “I’m in love with all things water,” the way my brother’s truck did, but his backseat did. His backseat was folded down to accommodate the towels, spear guns, a surfboard, buckets holding diving weights and regulators, and of course, a couple extra surfing wet-suits. Meanwhile, I was laying face up staring at the sun beating down on my completely black, neoprene covered body. This was the only position in which I was able to inhale any air into my lungs.
It’s hard work in the factory He’s a master of his craft
Twelve-hour days and nights Because even when his workers die
In here, we’re less than human He’s never understaffed
In here, we’ve got no rights Moneybags Zaggs, doin’ that rag
And who out there will listen There’s nothin’ he can’t buy
To our proletariat plight Moneybags Zaggs, oh what a drag
Not the man who signs our checks, no sir He’s gonna bleed me dry
He’s not the union type
He’s seen machines go haywire
And slice men clean in half
He’ll work your children to the bone
He even dodged the draft
But don’t think he’s a slacker, no