One of the things about getting older is that I don’t have as much time as I used to. But the loss of time doesn’t seem to bother me. I never truly appreciated it anyway. I always had a tendency to flow to the lowest common denominator. And what I know now is you only enjoy wasting time when you have little time to waste.
Instead, I take quick walks around the office, squaring the streets of Downtown Denver. Moving through bookstores like an aberration, touching the spines of paperbacks and the covers of magazines. My hope being that just knowing their existence is enough to keep me attached to a world I’ve lost. When do I have time to read anymore? Ok, the insomnia helps in that. But when do I have time to sit in a bookstore?
There’s a depression that hangs in the streets of any downtown during the day. The people that would be there are locked in the surrounding skyscrapers. And instead I wander through a crowd that’s desperate and stumbling. And the only thing they have is time. And the thing I don’t have is time. And we eye each other, silently jealous of what the other one takes for granted.
