Pocket of time

Listening to a song while staring at the floor of the train, watching the sun flash its flickering light in-between passing shadows.

Everything kind of seems to glow, everything defined by a line of white. And I’m sitting next to a little toddler who has a brilliant smile, wide bright eyes. And he smiles at me, muttering something nonsensical.

The crowd starts to fill in, a sea of foreign languages streaming in slowly and all around.

When I used to write all the time, I was always alone.

It’s hard to write when you’re constantly with people. There are things you don’t notice, and things you can’t think about.

I feel like the day I stop writing down a few things here and there would be a very sad day. It means I’ve stopped thinking, or at least I would have forgotten whatever I did think about. It would also mean I stopped noticing things. And the kind of beauty in the world that we can only see for ourselves.

Thoughts are wonderful. They’re something you can call your own. Something you create.

And when written down they’re immortalised and it becomes part of the physical world. Or in this case digital.

Now I’m looking out the window, and I wish the clouds didn’t glow so bright that it hurts to stare at them.


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