Written in February 2024 while reading Lucretius’ ‘The Nature of Things’.
Our lives are made up of a myriad of rituals.
A ritual can be as simple as our morning routine: turning off the alarm, making the bed, brushing our teeth, getting dressed, having breakfast, gulping down your first hit of caffeine for the day. Ever since I went travelling last year, one of my rituals has been to waste time.
In a world obsessed with extracting maximum productivity from every single activity and resource, wasting time might seem strange. But I view it as a simple and subversive act of rebellion.
It is also an opportunity to come to terms with the simple yet obvious fact that we are in fact human. And to be human is to reckon with the idea that we cannot be or do everything all the time without consequence.
When I first leaned into the idea of wasting time, I confess that I felt terrible about it. I felt as though I should be producing something, working on a side hustle, seeing friends, or learning something that would make me a better person. The idea of being still, to just be felt unnatural and wrong. Like it was somehow a waste.
We are conditioned into believing that time – by virtue of it being finite – is a precious resource that must be hoarded and protected. Value must be extracted from every second and the most heinous modern crime you can commit is to waste even a single moment.
When I went travelling on my first solo trip, I was met with endless expanses of time and no commitments. Save for my flights and train rides, my calendar was empty and I had nowhere to be and nothing to do. Time took on a different shape entirely, and rather than extract value from every moment, there was space to rest and wander.
In late 2023, while on these travels, I picked up a random book from the Uffizi Gallery. The old adage about not judging a book by its cover feels relevant to mention here, but I’m glad I did judge it by its cover otherwise I would never have picked it up. The book was a series of didactic poems exploring Epicurean philosophy, The Nature of Things by Lucretius.
In one of the essays, titled Matter and Void, Lucretius teaches us the atomic theory – a core tenet of Epicurianism. In the essay, Lucretius teaches us that everything in the universe comprises two fundamental elements: matter (atoms) and void (empty space).
Atoms are eternal and indivisible – moving and combining together to create all things. On the other hand, void provides the necessary space for atoms to move and interact.
The logical temptation might be to believe that void’s role in atomic theory is inferior to matter. After all, everything is made of matter – what does void produce or create in return other than, quite literally, nothing?
But it is the very presence of void that enables atoms to move freely and interact.
In Lucretius’ own words:
‘For if there were no emptiness, nothing could move; since it’s the property of matter to obstruct and to resist... Sans void, these would not only lack for agitated motion but existence altogether. They could no way come to pass with all things at a total standstill, chock-a-block with mass.’
In other words, without void, atoms would be too closely packed together, thereby rendering them useless. There would be no room for change, for movement, for unexpected collissions and evolution.
Matter and void are symbiotic. They need each other and both must be in constant equilibrium to maintain balance in the universe. We can view time through this lens as well. As a delicate balance between two opposing states. Neither taking precedence over the other.
Our time must be balanced between periods of momentum and idleness. Unchecked momentum leads to decay, exhaustion and burnout. While unchecked idleness keeps us stagnant and rooted in the same place.
Hustling and pursuing a goal gives our life meaning and direction. Taking an afternoon to sit in the park and watch the clouds is equally meaningful and directive. These moments of mere existence, where there are no expectations of production are necessary for living rich and meaningful lives.
The stillness gives us time to reflect and to contemplate. It gives us time to imagine, to dream and to wonder. Without the stillness, we cannot envision wonderful alternate futures for ourselves or take stock of the choices we have already made, and whether they give us fulfilment. It is these very things that make the experience of living so uniquely human. And yet it is precisely these things that we do not value, and in fact consider a waste.
What is wasteful about being grounded in nature? What is wasteful about rest? What is wasteful about contemplation and reflection?
We hide behind busy schedules, plans and full calendars to escape from being still. It is easy to flit between obligations and apppointments, but it is hard to be comfortable with an empty calendar and hours of nothingness. The latter requires that we sit with our own thoughts – which one could argue is the very thing most people try to avoid.
Time, like the universe, is an endless expanse before us. And in the same way that matter and void give the universe structure; ritual, routine and rest gives our lives structure.
In the same way that we make a ritual of our morning routines, so too should we make a ritual of wasting time. This means blocks of time for scheduled nothingness.
When I started the ritual of wasting time upon returning from my travels, it felt wrong at first. But in doing so I have seen significant changes in my life. I feel more creative, more disciplined, and more self aware. I feel more grounded in the present and more grateful. My thoughts are clearer, my mind is less chaotic, and the frantic propulsion to be constantly doing things has largely disappeared.
If I could distil what wasting time has taught me it is that idleness and contemplation – doing nothing – gives us the necessary pause to make and find meaning. To be grounded in the present and to decide where and how to direct our attention and energy.
In Seneca’s letter to Paulinus he says:
‘It is not that we have a short space of time, but that we waste much of it. Life is long enough, and it has been given in sufficiently generous measure to allow the accomplishment of the very greatest things if the whole of it is well invested.
...So it is – the life we receive is not short, but we make it so, nor do we have any lack of it, but are wasteful of it.’
Some might take this to mean that we must maximise our time, but I interpret it differently.
Contrary to what many may say, we have enough time. The question is not in how we prolong it, but rather how we choose to spend it.
While we try and make the most of this one life that we do have, and the time that we are given, we cannot also forget to make time for rest and for stillness. It is in this stillness that we craft and derive meaning.