In a world that measures life in productivity, I want to count my life in empty hours. I refuse to let the flicker of the screen fracture my hurried attention span. I want to sit by the window, waiting for the setting sun and for my coffee to go cold. I want to witness the blooming of evening flowers, and for once, I want to capture them to document the uninterrupted, ephemeral beauty of time. I don't want to pluck them to claim their beauty; I want to watch them fall and offer themselves to the Earth. I want to move with hours, not seconds, not microseconds. Not with the sharp precision of devices but with the quiet drift of my own mind.
I find myself longing for the time it takes for ink to dry on paper. A pace where I quietly caress my words, slowly infusing life into them in the space between thought and touch. I want to watch meaning unfold in my unrhymed lines, summoning a part of myself that has forgotten how to write not just with the mind but with the whole body. I am done chasing words on my screen; I long to write and bare my soul.
I want to prolong feelings by giving them time, allowing them to run through my mind, sometimes tracing its bleak corners. I want them to find excuses to stretch across pauses, fumble with unknown words and draw tangents into unheard realms. I crave the touch of the paper, of the printed word.
And yet, even as I ache for slowness, my hands still reach for the rush. Somewhere between the two, I hope to arrive at myself, slowly enough to meet the self I have been longing for...
[---November 2025]