Taylor Mills Final Blog Post

In chapter twelve of Four Thousand Weeks, Burkeman dives into the psyche of those he refers to as “digital nomads.” These are people seemingly obsessed with the concept of control in regards to their schedules, which often results in isolation from their peers. The main example Burkeman refers to throughout the chapter is a man known as Mario Salcedo who appears as the main character in Oppenheim’s film The Happiest Guy in the World. In this, Salcedo resides on a cruise ship and lives what he claims to be a perfect life, as he is not bogged down by mindless chores or needy children. He claims employees as close companions and is often found bragging to passengers about his level of happiness, though Burkeman seems entirely unmoved by such a statement. 

Burkeman claims Salcedo’s viewpoint is a rather fatal misunderstanding of what time should mean to us, as if it is something to be hoarded rather than redistributed to those we love and things we enjoy. Curating one’s own schedule sounds ideal in theory, but for people like Salcedo, it can often lead to separation from the people they should most value. This results in a lack of synchronization from the world at large, therefore while others are achieving some semblance of what is viewed as true happiness, this outlier is wandering aimlessly within an illusion of fulfillment. 

I have most definitely been someone Burkeman highlights in chapter twelve of Four Thousand Weeks, relishing in the time I get to spend in total seclusion rather than seeking out the company of others. I look back on my life and try to think of moments I genuinely felt the happiest, and each of them include another person or being. Despite knowing this, I have convinced myself that if I had more time alone, I would somehow achieve happiness. Throughout this semester, I have found myself still thinking that once I find the time to finish that novel I’ve been reading or rewatch that movie I loved in my younger years, I would finally have something close to a sense of happiness that I could latch onto and follow, but as the semester is drawing to a close, I’m struck with the realization that the more time I have available to me, the more my anxiety worsens. I turn to mindless entertainment to keep my brain from spiraling in these moments. I blast music into my ears and scroll endlessly to try and drown out my increasing heart rate, though it never works. Maybe if I could face this discomfort, I would be more content, but this still wouldn’t make me happy. I would continue to have these thoughts that I’m not doing enough, that I’m missing out and only wasting what little time I already have. 

When I try and think of what I could be doing instead of nothing, my thoughts go back to those books I haven’t completed or movies I haven’t watched or short stories I can’t seem to finish or albums I haven’t heard. Never once do I see interaction with people I care about as something more meaningful than this false sense of productivity. As I’m typing this, I feel overwhelmingly ashamed, knowing in my heart that I have been successfully brainwashed by a system that values what we can contribute over any real sense of comfortability we could possibly be feeling. I am continuously valuing the time I could be spending on myself more than the time I could be using to strengthen the meaningful relationships in my life, essentially stripping myself of those connections and welcoming an isolation that has only led to a decline in my overall health. 

Four Thousand Weeks felt like looking in a mirror and becoming horrifically aware of every scab desecrating my skin, every scar I’ve pretended I don’t notice still leaving a deep imprint. I thought of this chapter in particular when spending the weekend with some relatives of mine. While I was trying to read, my cousin’s infant daughter kept crawling towards me with a smile pulling at her cheeks and her arms outstretched. She would grab at my book or my phone or my piercings or my glasses. I felt mildly irritated throughout these interactions, but thankfully, I was reminded of death, of the fact that these moments are so few and far between. She’s gotten so big since the last time I saw her, and one day, we’re both going to be much older. And I’ll have wished I held onto her and kissed her forehead instead of redirecting her, so I scooped her up and rubbed my nose against hers. She giggled so innocently, and I was reminded of my brothers. As the oldest of four, I always saw it as my responsibility to watch over them, but when I was holding her, I felt like a failure. Because when was the last time I treated them with such care, or even made it known that I love them? When was the last time I gazed at them with such fondness or held them so tenderly? Now, I can't even recognize any of them. They slip through my fingers like sand in a sifter, yet I have the nerve to feel pride in my lack of maliciousness. This picture of her grasping my hand serves as a reminder to be kinder, to be present in moments I'm lucky enough to have in the first place. To mend relationships I may not have even realized were tearing at the seams.

I apologize if that was too personal, but I wanted to make it known just how grateful I am both for this reading in particular and the conversations we have all had together, as it has given me an abundance of opportunities to self-reflect. This course in particular will always be special to me, and I’m very glad I met you all. I'll miss us being together in person. Those are more moments I have taken for granted. I’ll try to be better.