The clock tells me it is only eleven fifty six in the morning on a rainy Sunday morning and yet it feels like it could be later or earlier at the same time. My coffee sings promises of productivity but the tray next to me shouts ideas of a contradictory sort. My desk vibrates under my arms with different stories, themes, morals, rebuttals, and jokes from many people from many places all channeling through a small box. There is flashing light providing me with assurance that I am connected to everybody in the world at a click of a Mighty Mouse. Rain pitter patters a beat across my ears showcasing different tones from the concrete to the cars and even against my office windows. Around the bend and up the stairs there sits a machine ticking away, yet failing in its duties to accurately tell me the time because it only ever says four twenty. There are plants meditating all around me that predetermined this calm and still day. There rumbles a tropical storm around my townhouse and I am thankful for this slow day. I can hardly remember the past few weeks swimming in to-do lists and responsibilities with floaties around my arms and a snorkel around my face. I am thankful for this slow day.
“We do not remember days, we remember moments.”