On Time and Magic

If you’re like me, steady breathing can feel like a foreign task. Ask me to stop and smell the roses, and I’ll likely say that’s a lofty ask. When did I become so enthralled with the hustle? Don’t get me wrong — being useful is a beautiful medicine. But there’s a sickness in me that confuses busyness with productivity. After all, progress doesn’t always mean movement (or some Hemingway-esque philosophy I once picked up and dropped years ago).

We all wish we could be more intentional with our time. Perhaps it’s the intention of time to move us gently, to reveal that true beauty lies in the fleeting moments. Yet, it often feels like the future waits with a crooked smile, and the photos I take only render subjects more and more blurry. Is life moving too fast? And if I slow down, will the world follow suit?

No, I’ve never been one to inspire others with grand ideas. It’s far easier to remain neutral and live in the cracks. Like that stubborn weed you can’t remove from your sidewalk, I’m always around — just something you mention in passing. Am I losing my magic? Just losing? Or am I magic? You’ll never notice when I disappear.