I found myself revisiting Interstellar yesterday, drawn once again into its vast, quiet meditations on time and existence. Somewhere between the equations and the silences, Professor Brand’s words; “I am afraid of time”, lingered longer than the movie itself.
They felt less like a line from a film and more like an uncomfortable truth I had been ignoring.
Time is not merely a dimension to be measured with clocks and equations; it is a quiet thief with impeccable manners. It never rushes, never stumbles, yet somehow leaves your pockets empty of moments you swore you had just placed there.
I think time is most mischievous in being so subtle. It does not announce the importance of a day while you are living it. A Saturday may pass with the grandeur of a discarded diaper, only to return years later dressed as a treasured memory. Birthdays blur, celebrations dissolve, and even sorrow softens at the edges.
Time edits ruthlessly. Where did I hear that!
Much like a toastmaster trimming a speech to meet an impossible word count.
And then there are people. The true variable.
You meet someone briefly, accidentally, and they rearrange the furniture of your mind without permission. You assume permanence while time chuckles politely and proves otherwise. Some remain, most fade, and a few become oddly immortal in recollection, as though memory itself refuses to obey the laws of decay.
The humor lies in our arrogance. We schedule, we plan, we declare, “next year,” as if time is our b*tch rather than an indifferent force. Meanwhile, the seconds slip by, unimpressed by our calendars.
So yes, I am afraid of time.
Not because it ends things, but because it renders them meaningful precisely by doing so. A paradox!
Then again, movies have never been particularly concerned with making us comfortable. Just like the universe.
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