I caught myself staring frequently at my left wrist. I was trying to find those little hands, which, although in a nice package, are a constant mark of the passing of time, almost tyrannical.
I turned on my way to a meeting, in the tumult of the subway, half a sip of coffee, but unlike the usual this time they weren't there.
It seems that I try to discover in a few paragraphs the black thread of the meaning of time, but no, it simply didn't have a clock on it and as it happens sometimes, very rarely, it is in these insignificant changes in the daily routine that one answers many accumulated doubts.
The watch, or the lack of it, my bare wrist and not by choice or by forgetfulness but because it has just changed hands; a lover of the alien, whom I don't know - although the details of that story may be for another post or several perhaps - but back to the absent watch... that I wasn't there made me realize how accustomed I was to it and how sharp the meaning of the alignment of those numbers is.
The years I've had, the weeks before Christmas, the months we've been mourning. The extra minutes I gave myself in the morning, the hours we spent thinking about, the hours we still have left to see each other again. The milliseconds of a collective seizure in September.
I pass, I don't know about you, a lot of time trying to dimension what happens and the truth is that trying to draw meaningful conclusions, the moments are lost; they are diluted among armchair theories.
We can spend hours dissecting a day, or the past five years, instead of nurturing these minutes.
And yes, all this because I lacked the certainty of those little hands on my left wrist. But maybe it's good not to have time so close at hand, maybe for a while, until you don't notice it so much and instead of telling about it you enjoy it more.
