Sitting beside the full glass windows, with my oat latter in hand, I watch the city slowly wake up. It’s still early – just past seven – and the light is gentle, not yet harsh. It spills over the table, across my skin, like it’s saying good morning without words. The café is quiet, save for the faint sound of milk frothing and the clinking of spoons against porcelain. Everything feels still, like the world hasn’t remembered how to rush yet. For once, I don’t want to move either. I just sit there, breathing, letting the warmth of the cup match the warmth of the sun. I don’t think about the next schedule. I just want time to go slow – not crawl, not stop – just slow enough for me to notice everything: the floating dust in the sunlight, the curve of steam rising, the rhythm of people walking outside. And then, almost uninvited, a thought crosses my mind: becoming time is hard . Because time never changes its pace. It never pauses for our heartbre...
Journeying through life, one thought at a time.