Time Felt, Not Measured.

There's an undeniable pressure that comes with writing these posts. Half the posts on my laptop will never see daylight. I'm a stickler for detail, constantly rereading and editing until I'm satisfied. Sometimes, I'm perhaps too critical, trashing perfectly good attempts into the recycle bin. It’s perfectionism, but also habit, a way of trying to pin down something slippery. The one theme I keep circling back to, no matter how many drafts I scrap, is time.

When people think of encounters like this, the assumption is usually urgency; a compressed need, a quick outlet. I understand it, biology is efficient that way. But when it comes to real intimacy, urgency rarely works. Attraction can be instant, but intimacy has its own tempo. It benefits from space: a drink where the conversation finds its form, an unhurried meal where humour builds rapprt, the subtle tension of a look that lasts a beat too long. Those are the things that make the later moments richer. For me, eroticism is less about speed and more about an accumulation: touch, laughter, and trust layered slowly until they become undeniable.

That’s why I value dates that allow for time to unfold naturally. A dinner, a walk, a few hours spent exploring somewhere together, they’re not a nessessity, but they leave room for attention without rush, which makes everything so much better! Stephen Covey said, “The key is in not spending time, but in investing it.” I’m suspicious of productivity talk, but I like that line when I shift the emphasis: investing not in output, but in being. Those are the hours that carry forward, they’re the ones that leave their trace.

I don’t give too much time to this part of my life, deliberately so. My work, friends, books, and other loves come first. But I do value the hours I spend here, especially with people who understand the difference between passing time and inhabiting it. It feels like time that resists being filed away as ‘just an evening.’ It insists on sticking.