Losing My Sense of Time While Growing Up
Lately, I’ve realized that I don’t like the feeling of time anymore. Every minute feels sharp and uncomfortable, as if the clock is pressing against me. Even fifteen seconds can feel like a waste when I’m drawing, like I’ve somehow lost a piece of something I’ll never get back. It’s not that I hate creating—it’s that I’ve grown too aware of how long everything takes. Time used to be invisible to me, but now it’s always standing there, watching, reminding me that each second counts and that nothing happens instantly.
When I was younger, I never cared about time at all. I could draw for hours without thinking about how long it took or whether I was improving. I remember sitting down with paper or a game box and getting completely lost in it. There was no rush, no pressure—just the quiet rhythm of lines forming into shapes and the slow unfolding of ideas. That freedom came from not measuring myself; I wasn’t trying to finish anything. I was simply exploring, letting curiosity guide every stroke, without the need for deadlines or outcomes.
As I grew older, that sense of timelessness began to fade. I started to notice how long a drawing took, how little I could get done in a short burst, and how others seemed faster or more confident. Awareness of time shifted my perspective: art stopped being a private exploration and became a measure of efficiency. Each line, each color choice, now felt weighed against a ticking clock. The enjoyment I once felt was replaced by self-evaluation, and the clock transformed from a neutral observer into an oppressive force.
This awareness changed how I approached every drawing. I found myself rushing to “get it done,” even before I knew what I wanted to express. At the same time, I hesitated, overthinking every line, fearing it might consume too much time. Time became a wall between my mind and my hand, a constant reminder that creativity is not instantaneous. The ease I once had—the rhythm of losing myself in the process—was replaced by tension and self-imposed pressure.
Sometimes, the feeling of time creates guilt. Even when I’m fully immersed, I worry that a minute could have been better spent elsewhere, or that I could be progressing faster. Fifteen seconds of hesitation feels like failure, and a five-minute pause feels like wasted effort. This hyper-awareness makes drawing exhausting in a way it never was when I was younger. The joy of exploration now competes with the anxiety of efficiency, and the tension can be paralyzing.
I’m slowly learning to approach time differently again. I try to remind myself that art isn’t a countdown or a race; it’s an experience, something that grows in its own rhythm. Some days I succeed, allowing time to fade as I immerse myself in creation. Other days, I feel trapped by it, struggling to regain that sense of flow and timelessness I once took for granted. But even small moments of forgetting the clock remind me of what I’m working toward: freedom in the process, not perfection in the result.
Looking back, I realize that the challenge with time is really a challenge with presence. The goal isn’t to defeat or control it—it’s to reconnect with the way I used to work as a child, when a single drawing could stretch across an entire day, and the world beyond my imagination simply didn’t exist. Rediscovering that rhythm is difficult, but it’s also essential. By learning to lose myself in creation again, I can reclaim the joy of art that transcends minutes, seconds, and deadlines, and remember why I fell in love with drawing in the first place.
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