It is the Hours, Not the Years
Journal Entry: November 11, 2025 – 9:16 AM
Longevity is overrated. What matters is not how many years one lives, but how one lives within the hours that are given. Most of the hours that pass through our hands are lost without a trace, absorbed into repetition and unconscious habit. We are conditioned to measure our lives by the calendar, but the truth is that time does not care about birthdays or anniversaries. What matters is presence, and how deeply we inhabit the hours that make up our days.
An artist learns this truth early. Years of dabbling or dreaming count for little compared to a single season of focused devotion. The work happens in the quiet hours, not the decades. A single morning of genuine clarity can carry more weight than a year of purposeless distracted activity. To create anything of real depth, we must learn to treat hours as the true currency of life, spending them wisely and deliberately rather than watching them dissolve into a haze of obligation or noise.
It is tempting to imagine that meaning will somehow accumulate over time, that by simply staying alive and keeping busy we are building something lasting. But years are deceptive. They can pass while the soul remains stagnant. Growth does not happen automatically. It happens when one gives oneself wholly to the task at hand, when the mind and hand are unified in purpose. The artist’s life, or any creative life, depends on the quality of attention within each hour, not on the number of years spent at it.
This is why discipline matters. Not as a form of punishment or duty, but as a way of protecting what is sacrosanct. To shape one’s hours with intention is to resist the gravity of meaningless meandering. To decide what deserves your time is to decide what deserves your life. Every moment spent on what you love becomes a small act of rebellion against the culture of waste that tells you to fill your time and attention with consumption, distraction, and comparison.
When we begin to honor our hours, life changes texture. Time slows. Work deepens. The smallest gestures gain significance. A brushstroke, a phrase, a line of thought - all begin to carry weight because they are infused with attention. And attention, once cultivated, becomes a form of love.
So the next time you think of how long you have been at something, pause and ask instead: how many real hours have I given it? Not the years that have gone by, but the hours I have lived awake, doing what I was born to do.
The years will take care of themselves. It is the hours that make the art, the hours that make the life.
The words that came to me when reading this essay were “Three Cords and The Truth”. Well done.👍
Another motivating piece. Why does it take so long in life for (most of us) to learn it's the hours? Once again, thanks for your gentle but straightforward words.