It is so silent that I can hear the wall clock tick in symphony. I can feel my heart beating in rhythm with the tick tock of the clock. Every tick a reminder of a day spent doing, seeing or experiencing nothing. Time is so precious and sparse that it always seems to be slipping out of my hands.
“The sweetness of doing nothing.” That once used to mean so much. Now, I am wondering if I am trying to keep up with the pace of my life, or is it life that is trying to keep up with the pace I’m running. There is no time to think, no time to read.. No time to be random. No time to think random. No time to find someone to talk about those random thoughts. Everyone sounds the same. People always want to talk about other people, their work or living in their past thinking of a lost habit (eg: I used to do this and that) rather than acting on it.
I am bored.
The pace is so fast, that it is becoming an imbibed habit of my life. To keep doing something. Go out, see the city before I leave it again. Go out, talk more to people before we part again. Go out, live my freedom before I get tied down again. Go out and just do something. I just want to keep doing something. Some psychological comfort probably.
Being still was such an easy pleasure before and silent solitude an easy companion.
This thing called, “time”.