May it all be as great as to be written down.

At some early point of this short lived road, I had that odd benefit of watching without concern. As a pleasant but unexpected blow, I found myself within a life that was utterly unknown and yet so seemingly close to what I had imagined. I quickly found out an undeniable truth about londoners: their obsession with time. Just one glance and so many people counting minutes between trains, speeding their steps, rushing, avoiding, forgetting.

Let the reason be my general amazement for the unfamiliar, or just my odd sense of humor, but I found this somewhat amusing. Every time I passed it by, I hid a smile at the underground sign that threatened: “what doesn’t go on the bins, causes delays on the tracks”. Ah delays! The very incarnation of evil that could cause all this people to have a slightly less pleasant matutinal fast food.

Those days, not long ago, I felt I could still do it all. Whatever lived within the city was at my reach. I was London Eye itself, watching life from above. But as every new day came, my patient bliss grew weaker, replaced by silly me striving to make the most of even a rainy day. So far now, from where I had been, I saw myself in competition with the well-dressed man rushing past me. I too had an appointment, with an art gallery of course. Red glowing lines were already marking half past six and I knew I could not possibly make it. I could only wish for time to be delayed itself.

For I still had to find something that I had left pending, or behind. Perhaps it was found and long gone. Maybe laying ahead. Had it hit me in oblivion? That one thing that I was trying to get tattooed, so eager to write down. Had it come at last?

As if the lights had suddenly been turned off, I stood under the misty sky. It didn't seem to matter and the rain kept falling too fast. The gallery doors shut closed, the Piccadilly line was still on track and the faceless man had gotten to that place in time. And I stood there, blinded and paralysed, wondering what to do with the rest of my time, or lack thereof.