Once upon a time

She learnt how to measure time in half hours. Half an hour at 3A, another half at 3B, the next half at 3C and so on up to 6B. And repeat. From 8:45 in the morning until 6 in the evening. Every day. At times even 7 days in a row. Like the Chinese drop. Minutes are endless.

Never before she saw time in these dimensions. Now 10 minutes have another meaning. Measuring 4 minutes forth and back with the elevator to the “crew room” on the second floor. If unlucky maybe 5 or 6 minutes lost on the way. The remaining minutes drink fast a glass of water and/ or a bad coffee from the shitty machine in the same famous crew room. Sometimes she was so exhausted from this endless repetition that she couldn’t see the point of running to catch less than 10 minutes. Week days and week ends have lost their meaning. It was only days in the museum and days off the museum.

The days off are puzzling her. What she should do now with all this free time? Without restrictions divided in half hours the degree of freedom is almost unbearable.

Time is precious when you look at it this way. But maybe time isn’t even a dimension in itself. To feel better about wasting all this (precious) time she decided not to think of it as linear. Time can be whatever. In parallel times she is doing various exciting things that changes everything for the better. In one of these parallel non linear entities she is the best version of herself. Because if this version is not here, now, it must be somewhere else, right?

And she doesn’t even wear an uniform in this dimension. First time she had an uniform was in the kindergarten. She had an orange shirt with a red tie. It was so nice to finally wear it. She was so excited to be part of this crowd that proudly wear their red ties and orange shirts. She thought so nicely about this first uniform. And, in any case there was not so much choice anyway. You couldn’t really wear anything nicer than this. Not soon enough she learned that the uniform was a way to strip the humanity out of her. Her individuality. And she remembers that, just like now, in that uniform was supposed to be a different person. Not truly herself but someone flawless. A sort of superhuman. And one particular time she remembers that she was grounded for laughing. Hair perfectly combed and smile to go with it. Sometimes even a poetry about the beloved “tovaraș” and the great nation that we we’re. Between then and now similarities pour and it feels like she’s living a replica of that time.

So, you see? Time is playing tricks on her. Séquences from then are now. Inter tangled. Intertwined.

And she made a decision. That she would let time be on her side.

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