Time.

12 March 2002

I Mark the Time, Dost Thou?

There is a large, beautiful antique polished copper clock hanging in the cafe. It silently watches over the comings and goings of life - customers lingering over their morning cuppa, or rushing off carrying their take-away lattes and cappuccinos, kick-starting the day even before they get to work. Sleek suits, carefully tailored images, this is weekday city life.

The cafe is quiet and pleasant, in spite of the steady stream of customers. Somehow I can relax and work here at the same time. It's my morning office-away-from-office. The antique clock looms above all of us, impassive, waiting, watching. Dost Thou Mark the Time? it asks. In my less-collected moments I feel like there isn't enough time. I pressure myself beyond the point where I can accomplish what is necessary. Of course necessary is relative. Life will go on regardless. The silent, impassive clock will still be here tomorrow, waiting, watching as the city folk rush to pick up their daily morning fix.

I lean back into the cushions and gaze out the window. Time passes.