Sometimes I admire the street person with few belongings and no job. They have time to observe and think. They are unbeholden. Perhaps they are as the wild animals. Fighting for survival but free.
Then there is the pull of the aescetic monk living in the proverbial cave, his work is mastering himself.
Oh the stories, inventions, books, songs, poems that were never expressed and die with the physical body in the grave.
Let me have the focus, clarity and time to express what is inside. Give me space to explore the inside. Staring at a wall or closing my eyes is the deep work which often goes unrewarded.
The greatest things take time. Music takes time. Dance takes time. Writing takes time. Thought takes time. Adventure is time. Nature takes time.
And so how shall I spend my seconds which leads to years and spell the life story?
Lock the door and close the windows. I will emerge when I do.