JO Magazine

Turns out there’s no time to kill; it’s hard to make the good times last. Seasons in the sun fade, and memories lose their meaning. So what’s left?

Words by Alma Khasawnih

Life is full of secrets. Some are dangerous and we make certain we keep them to ourselves; others are exchanged in the privacy of a room while hunched over a cup of coffee; still others would never be spoken because they are not important to others, but they mean everything to us.

But the kind of secrets I’m writing about now are the events we see in our surroundings that no one else seems to notice—as if they were there as a private treat just for us.

A week ago I was leaving work at around six in the evening; it was a warm evening with a slight breeze, the sky darkening blue with a few fluffy white clouds. The park was full of people who were packing their day’s work, others were playing basketball and football. There were families and lots of children, men with their hookahs, policemen, tents with workers moving things in and out, garbage collectors, trucks, teens on skates, people walking while others jogged, cars and music.

In the midst of it all there was a man stretched on his back on the fake plastic grass with his arms bent in triangles, his hands under his head, his legs fully touching the ground, his eyes watching the sky. He was watching the day sky turn into night, the white of the clouds becoming orange like nectarines on fire. He seemed unaware of the workers hauling tables and chairs, banners and papers around him and over him, to a truck parked just a few meters from the soles of his shoes.

There was no music disturbing his quiet, no children calling or laughing, no young people on their phones, no balls bouncing and referees whistling. In all that chaos, this man was sharing his solitary secret with the
world.

Further down the street I saw two young women with their arms locked, walking and hunched a little to the front so their heads would be close. Their bodies seemed to move as one, harmonized in the words the one on the right was telling the other. They were smiling, giggling, with eyes big and shiny. Something big was being told. Gossip? A crush? A tale of a childish prank or a political plot? I had no idea. But they seemed free of all cares: whatever was going on in their lives before that moment, whatever would be going to happen after, could not have penetrated their bubble of trust, intimacy and support.

I write about these moments because I believe that without them life would be a shelf without books; a shell without the filling. We are constantly speeding around, too busy to stop—look—wonder. What is it we’re rushing around for? What's so important that we don’t have time to go swimming, to spend time with our families or to go for a walk?

I’m asking these questions because I’m trying to understand. When do we get the time to stop and think about our lives: what we want to do, where we want to do it, with whom? How do we make new friends and find love if we are driving at 80 kilometers an hour, on our cell-phones while at the café, and continuing to work at home after nine hours of work at work?

A colleague of mine at work believes that what matters in relationships is agreeing on the general path that both parties are walking on as a guide to their lives. A broad common belief that guides both people in the same direction is enough to mark them as life partners.

What do you think: is life in the general or the details? I wonder if love could be ever found in a life so hectic and lost in the general. Therefore, I wish you details. I hope you’ll slow your driving down and look at those around you. I wish you the opportunity to watch children play and to smell the jasmine.

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