The Long Periods of My Life

As I grow older, I am astonished by how quickly time passes.

Not only do days and nights slip away, but even months and years vanish without trace.

Those around me are equally affected by this same phenomenon.

Everyone keeps referring back to their childhood.

As children, we would leave home in the morning and go to school.

During breaks, we played all sorts of games with many friends.

Even after the last class ended, we continued playing outside.

Yet the day never seemed to end.

Even if it did, night never reached dawn.

The next day was always the same.

But nothing could match the length of summer holidays.

As soon as the final school bell rang, we would head to the village.

Those old enough helped with fieldwork,

while the younger ones went to the mosque for religious instruction.

After lunch, we would gather again and keep playing until evening.

We did not wear watches back then.

Because we had no business with time. It was already long enough,

as long as it needed to be.

Yet my first encounter with the concept of time came during lessons at one of the mosques.

Our teacher was listing the signs of the Day of Judgment.

According to these, as the Day of Judgment drew near, time would accelerate.

So much so that, according to tradition, a month would pass as quickly as a week.

As a ten-year-old child, this struck me as strange.

I wondered inwardly: how could such a long month as July possibly end in a week?

And indeed, it never did.

When autumn arrived, we returned to school again.

This cycle continued for a long time.

Then came high school, then university, and distances—more accurately, obligations—began to intrude between us and those long summer holidays. They never returned.

Thus, the long stretches of my life—my childhood years—were left behind.

Recently, I came across an article investigating this very subject^【1】.

It described how our perception of time changes with age.

According to the study, participants were divided into two groups: one under 30 years of age, the other over 50.

They were asked to close their eyes and mentally count out 120 seconds.

The researchers then calculated the average time each group estimated.

The group under 30 averaged 115 seconds.

The group over 50 averaged 87 seconds.

For the younger group, their internal clock clearly ran slower.

The article also noted that this phenomenon was not coincidental but directly linked to dopamine levels in the brain.

Dopamine, among its other functions, is a hormone associated with feeling good.

It is released in greater amounts during activities that support survival instincts, such as eating, competing, and creating.

Thus, time perception expands.

Conversely, in states that suppress dopamine release—such as sadness, anxiety, or depression—time perception contracts, the article continued.

Another study suggested that the human brain optimizes memory by not storing repetitive events.

After all, as children, every experience is new.

Almost every moment leaves a distinct memory.

But as we grow older, things change.

Each moment passes, and days begin to blur into one another.

And time speeds up.

Because now, rarely does anything happen for the first time.

The writer is right when he says that nothing in life is as it appears or is experienced, but rather as it is remembered.

Nevertheless, by accepting these findings as a basis, it is possible to resist, to some extent, this illusion imposed on human consciousness.

Certainly, by engaging in new activities that the mind has never experienced before and that leave no trace in memory.

In other words, by stepping outside routine.

And what constitutes stepping outside routine differs for everyone.

Otherwise, it is difficult to stand against this flood of time.

It sweeps away whatever you try to hold onto.

Indeed, those who have long conversations with the elderly know that the topic always returns, again and again, to the fleeting passage of time.

As if they had something they could not reclaim.

They say, with deep regret, that time flowed like water and they understood nothing.

Or perhaps with a sense of being deceived—I do not know.

After all, what fresh childhood remains for them, or what old joy?

A small apocalypse has arrived: a month has become like a week.

And the sign has come to pass in this way.