There is this sensation at this time of year, near the end of it.
The leaves are slowly changing, it starts getting cold with little to no sign of warmth.
Everything is rushing to be somewhere, myself included.
The end of the year is in sight, so we cram it full of things we imagine deadlines exist for.
The difference is this year, I’m quiet inside.
This understanding of time I gripped so hard has thankfully slipped right past me.
I’m unbothered by its passing, not unmoored by penning tasks to a list.
My walks in the morning are allowed to take as long or short as I can manage.
Days of the week are only important when I’m tapped back into the world of deadlines.
I’m slowly unraveling time and the constriction I forced it to wrap me in.
No longer finding safety and security in the dependability of my productivity.
I lounge with grace and sink into the wealth of empty afternoons and evenings.
Sometimes I’m visited by merchants wishing to trade time for wealth.
As pleasant as their pitches are, I continue to be pleased at my own resistance.
I manage my time around the warmth of not needing an escape.