i missed my train this morning. so i had some 15 odd minutes to spare. i didn't have the touch with me, and i don't usually bring out my laptop at stations. so i sat down, contemplating how these missed 15 minutes would affect the pace of the rest of my day.
i love clocks. esp the ones at stations - the huge, old ones. with arms, not numbers on them. between my "how-can-i-make-up-for-lost-time" and "what-was-it-i-had-to-do" state of mind, my eyes were drawn to the clock that hung past the staircase at the station... and i realized the simple pleasure of having the time to notice an arm of the clock move a minute ahead. it was just a minute, but it seemed like such a great effort for the arm. so much movement, such little progress?
makes me wonder if that's what i'm doing. putting in so much effort, to move less than an inch?