One of the best things to come out of the last two years is that my senses of time and space have got very slippery. I used to be confident about where I had been and when I had done things. But I look at images of New York or Hong Kong or Sydney and think “Was I really ever there?” Even London, which I know like the back of my hand, has become “as of a dream”.
And as for time. I look at photos of the kids when they were little and it’s as if those people still exist now, but are different from the adults that visit our house. The intervening years, and sense of progression, has gone.
My true experience of both time and place is always here and now. It can’t be anything else. The linear narrative of my life that my brain constructs is made up. It doesn’t exist. It never did.
Realising this is disconcerting but freeing.