The warmth of a cup of tea in my hands, muted light and stillness. Sleep used to win every time but as I get older the allure of that first sentence shakes me from my bed. It is early Sunday morning and there is a restfulness, that time before the world wakes up and there is only the rising steam from my tea and the second hand moving around the clock. A time for the inner sanctum of me, to be there at the forefront, the wide eyes of it turned inwards to dissect the introspection.
I’m thinking, isn’t it something that there are so many ways to fill an hour, so many different ways and that no one hour is ever completely the same. The luxury of a Sunday is to choose how to spend each hour of today, each hour stretched out to be filled and having the freedom to shape my day. There is humanness to that thought. The architect of our own days.
There is a lot of wasted life, wasted seconds and hours-time is a gift that we all squander and yet, there is so much I want to do and know. I know it will never all get done but without the pressure of time would there be any urge to do any of it?