Late Friday night, walking home from work at 10pm, I had a realisation. I walked throughout the centre of London, drunk and jolly people all around, a group of girls hurrying to get somewhere. I realised a very basic thing, a feeling that I haven’t experienced a lot since I moved to this city: I’ve got time.
Everyone around me always seems to be rushing. I always seem to be rushing. Not tonight. Tonight I’ve got time. I leave the train station behind me, see the tourists, running, shoving and pushing, trying to catch a train or an airplane. Normally I’d feel bad for them, but tonight, I’ve got time.
I might just take a detour and sit on a bench near the park for a while, and look at the people passing by. I might start a conversation with a homeless person. I might write another page for that novel that I’ll never finish. I’ve got time.
I might go and have a chat with the cute girl that always works the late shift at the train station flower shop. I won’t care if she does or does not like me. I won’t care about my first impression. I’ve got time.