The Quiet Exit

When it happens, it’ll probably be mid-morning on a Tuesday. In between another bullshit idea and half action. When it happens, the world will not stop. The majority of people I’ve crossed paths with will never notice. Same as when I arrived, really.

In between those two points, I’ll spend a lot of time building things. Plans, mostly. Some of them good. Most of them half alive, and the rest will never make it out of the research stage. I’ll carry them around, waiting for the moment when they finally make sense in full.

It’ll never come.

And I’ll keep making plans. Every day. Another idea. Another thing I’m going to do. Another version of something that feels important right now, even if it won’t register anywhere at the end.

I doubt I’m alone in this. This delusion we all share — that we have more time than we do. So we start and stop grand ideas based on the most finite resource we’ll ever own.

But let’s say we all woke up tomorrow and were told exactly how much time we had left.

How would we live?

Would you sleep as much? Would you stay in conversations that were going nowhere, with people you’d already outgrown, in rooms you’d already decided weren’t for you? Would you keep swallowing the thing you actually wanted to say just to make everyone else more comfortable?

Probably not.

You’d move differently. Speak more directly. Care less about how you were being perceived and more about whether you were actually present. You’d either be more forgiving or less tolerable. More indulgent, with less concern about stability and future security.

You’d be braver. Not recklessly. Just honestly. In the way people who’ve had a close call often describe — suddenly very clear on what mattered and quietly done with what didn’t. You’d waste less energy on things and people that didn’t serve.

But everything, including clarity, comes at a cost.

If everyone were suddenly given their exact moment of expiration, how would that impact the world we live in?

On average, innovation can take decades to move from concept to creation. Movies, art, music — the kind that stands the test of time — takes months to years. It can take nearly a decade to become a specialist in medicine or engineering.

If everyone became acutely aware of their own mortality, how many would spend a second doing anything other than living in the moment?

Would anyone plant a tree they’d never sit under? Build something designed to outlast them? Spend years learning an instrument?

The illusion of time is one of the architectures that makes something worth making. It’s built on the quiet assumption that there’s enough time to do it properly.

The illusion is why you wait for the right moment to ask someone out. And if they say yes, you don’t rush it. You let it develop slowly. The way it only can when you believe there are more mornings and dinners to come. The illusion allows friendships to survive disagreements. Makes that road trip worth taking.

“Live like you’re dying” is a bumper sticker, not a philosophy.
“Slow and steady wins the race” is from a children’s book.

The adjustment?

Accept that the illusion is necessary but refuse to be owned by it.

Figure out what actually matters to YOU. What you’re genuinely curious about. Who you’re most yourself around. Then choose those things deliberately. Spend your hours there on purpose. Not by default. Not by drift.

Time will be wasted either way.

Choose who and what you waste it on.

In the meantime, I’ll continue making plans and coming up with ideas that may or may not eventuate. Not because I’m waiting, but because I allow myself to explore.

When it happens, I’d rather it be a Thursday. Late afternoon. Preferably spring or autumn. Warm enough for shorts, cool enough for a light sweater.

In the middle of figuring out what’s for dinner because I forgot to take something out.

Ordinary. Unfinished.

And totally fine.