Slow

The days stretched out, like a bubble, inching its way through the hoop. Like a semibreve crawling along the bow and the cello sighing, resonating, even after the final stroke. Slowness, endless. Eternity. Longing for more time that only slips into the gutter and spills into the frantic vortex of the currents, immortally shifting. We know how to describe slowness with perfection. But it seeps away from our hands.

Type without accent, and grace. Write with a soul that drags itself across the floorboards at night. And blow those candles out with a gentle hush and remember you can take five breaths, seven, and still make a wish. One year to the next you grow older and forget that though childhood lasts so briefly, it felt like eons. It felt like a Proust marathon and it was clean and beautiful and unmarred. This is because each day was new and heralded with spontaneity. The worries of yesterday left no imprint, no stain and if they did you left them there and saw them for what they were: pretty footprints and paintings.

The horse gallops but really, though you’ve forgotten its sweet language, it enjoys the steady canter and trot through the landscape, admiring and absorbing. It loves this just as much as the race and wind and it it deprived. Somewhere you know how to listen to them, but you made yourself forget.

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