Fast Track

We live in an era where everything moves at high speed. If it isn't fast, we want it fast; we expect it fast. And when it doesn’t happen, we feel frustration. Sometimes, we even expect things to occur instantaneously.

Recently, I was at the airport and happened to find myself in the "fast track" security line. There is a certain sense of empowerment and satisfaction in being in that fast lane while, just a few yards away, others wait in a hour-long queue. It isn't just the relief of passing through quickly and having time for a good cup of coffee; it is also that sensation—perhaps unconscious—of having beaten the system... and, in a way, having beaten the others.

Today, everything is wanted fast, regardless of the track.

We are accustomed to living inside a smartphone: our lives, information, money, relationships, work, schedules, and photos are all there. Everything is just a second away, right at our fingertips. But this apparent sense of control, satisfaction, and peace of mind is nothing more than an illusion. Yes, it is practical, agile, and convenient, but it is not enough. In fact, it isn't even a fraction of what truly matters.

Life is found in looking up and observing what is around us; in asking ourselves fundamental questions: Who are we? Where do we come from? Who do we have close to us? What values do we truly believe in? What do we really feel? How do we face our contradictions and complexities?

Paradoxically, life passes by very quickly. It is fast, but to truly live it, one needs a solid track. A route. A process that involves effort, learning, falling down, and getting back up. Trial and error. These are slow paths—often painful, frustrating, even tedious. But only through them do we reach what is meaningful: a true friendship, a vocation, a degree, a stable partner, a sport we love, a talent we develop. These are the things that give life meaning, and whose value we often only discover when they are lost.

"Fast" language has also become a significant obstacle, disguised as efficiency. Today, we communicate with short messages, emojis that "say it all," and abbreviated words, attempting to explain less and less. This prevents us from going deeper, from organizing our thoughts and expressing ourselves with clarity, even in our daily lives. This form of communication leads us to internalize emotions that need to be shared. We lose the ability to argue, to engage in nuanced dialogue, to understand, and to make ourselves understood.

There is an illusion that agile and rapid processes are more effective. And yes, in the short term, they can work. But what truly endures, what touches the soul, and what transforms us, happens slowly—almost always without us noticing.

Therapeutic processes also require time, patience, tolerance, and commitment. They cannot be accelerated without losing depth. One can ask ChatGPT for a summary of Don Quixote and pretend to know what it’s about. It might even help pass an exam. But that comes at a cost: the experience of reading, imagining, expanding one's language, and reflecting is lost. Worst of all, deep down, we are only deceiving ourselves.

And so it goes with almost everything in life.

We live in a constant struggle between the desire for the immediate and the need for the profound. That impulse toward the easy, the fast, and the instantaneous ignores an essential truth: immediate benefits are mostly fleeting. That which is truly valuable requires time.

This "fast track" culture of immediate pleasure is not just a consequence of technology; it has deep roots in our psychic structure. Wilfred Bion spoke to us about the importance of tolerating frustration. Of not expelling it, not denying it, and not acting on it immediately. Only when we can hold the emotional experience without the need to eliminate it do we begin to think. To really think. And thought—like emotional life—needs an internal space to be deposited, digested, and transformed. Bion called this reverie: that containing function that we first find in another (a mother, a therapist, a significant bond) and later develop within ourselves.

But "fast" culture moves in the opposite direction: it does not tolerate waiting, it cannot stand the void, and it does not admit contradiction. It seeks to avoid anxiety at all costs—even at the cost of ourselves.

That is why returning to the "long track"—the slow and complex path of the psychic life—is, in a way, an act of resistance. An act of health. Of authenticity.

It is not about romanticizing slowness, but about reclaiming the process. Understanding that what is meaningful requires time. That the profound cannot be rushed. That growing, loving, creating, and thinking are verbs that do not accept "express" mode.

And perhaps, only when we allow ourselves to exit the fast lane is when we truly begin to travel the path of living.