To many students like myself, mid-July feels like this: “I can’t believe school starts in only a month—I haven’t done enough summery things yet.” There’s a nagging sense of regret even in the present that maybe we could do more to optimize our time. Maybe it’s FOMO, the fear of missing out, or, perhaps, the fear of wasting time. To my mind, summer is a long-anticipated golden calf, carved out with endless vacations and immediate suntans. Not a moment of this empyrean season should go to waste.

Occasionally on social media, a Gandhi-type quote appears: “Live as if you were to die tomorrow.” There’s so much to do—where to begin? Even the most glorious Blue Ridge view can’t always sweep away the anxiety that my time might be better spent elsewhere, or, at the very least that I could be doing more. Beyond summer activities, optimization anxiety arises in daily cycles: Am I sleeping the optimal number of hours? Am I exercising the optimal amount per day? These questions arise from the fear that I’m not reaching my full potential in any given situation.

In the latest issue of The Mockingbird, Ethan Richardson asks: “What if we were freed from viewing our life exclusively in light of its potential?” When we operate under the pressure of “one day realizing our full potential,” we imagine that if we optimize our time, we might fight our way through the February-cold night of the now and reach some ideal summer of relaxation in the future. In Gravity and Grace, philosopher Simone Weil discusses the idea of renouncing these idealized notions of past and future, writing that “past and future hinder the wholesome effect of affliction….” Weil wants us to consider this very moment, to look honestly at the now, wherein likely there is some trace of affliction or anxiety, maybe even about the fear of wasted time.

Last year a friend introduced me to the music of London Grammar, a UK-based band that combines ethereal electronics with killer vocals. They recently won the Ivor Novello Award for Best Song Musically and Lyrically for “Strong,” which sings: “Man seems so strong—man speaks so long—I’ve never been so wrong….” Their simple but resonant observations about the human condition remind me of Ecclesiastes, incising a grace-shaped hole in the rockface of humanity.

While wasting my time on YouTube, I came across the music video for London Grammar’s single, “Wasting My Young Years”—the inspiration for this post. The video portrays young people suspended in midair, inactive, flipped upside down or sideways, while Hannah Reid, the lead singer, cries out: “I’m wasting my young years—maybe we are….” As the tempo picks up, I can’t tell if the song maintains its melancholic tone or becomes somehow triumphant. Listen below.

I love that the song employs the present tense: I’m wasting, not I wasted. I still am. Maybe I know better, but I can’t help myself. The Apostle Paul admonishes the early church in Ephesus to live wisely, “making the most of the day” (5.16). He helpfully identifies wisdom as good and time-wasting as bad, but sometimes these things remain beyond our control. Frankly, I’m not wise enough to know whether or not I’m wasting my young years.

My last year of college spans ahead, and I want to make the most of it. A lot of my friends, myself included, see this as the ending of days: the ending of our lengthy summer vacations, which we’ve enjoyed since kindergarten. But I have a feeling this anxiety won’t subside after graduation: I’ll want to make the most of the weekends, the vacations, and ultimately, as Paul encourages, each day as it’s given. The fear of wasting time remains inevitable, a sort of persistent, resonant affliction. Simone Weil, crazy as she was, saw immense value in perpetual affliction:

When pain and weariness reach the point of causing a sense of perpetuity to be born in the soul, through contemplating this perpetuity with acceptance and love, we are snatched away into eternity.