Precious

I might keep busy stealing watches, year after year, but time isn’t absolute. Some days it barely flows, lagging lazily like treacle from a spoon. The very hours we don’t want it to, it whips by in a blur - our perception of time is our reality.

Is it possible to savour the golden evenings, catch the drips of them in their amber glow and string them into a beautiful necklace of moments, to run through the fingers when time is creeping lonely-slow again?

Is there a way to freeze-frame the speedy flash of joy, to hold the hands of the clock while each instant is drunk to the last drop?

The scarcity of pleasure, the rare treat of stolen happiness, snatched from the gloom of these cold, dark days. Who knows how many hours of wonder are still to come, and how many are already crushed to dust in the pepper-grinder of the everyday humdrum?

Never has mindfulness, the stillness of living in the moment, struck such a powerful chord. These will be the golden days.