A second is nothing. Nothing is a second. In the pragmatic mind a second accounts for nothing but one sixtieth of a minute. Hence a minute would account for one sixtieth of an hour that could destine the beginning of a new era, or the end of another. Time really is undervalued in these times! Yet every one yearns for that extra second, may it be a processor that caramelizes raw data into succulent information faster than your rival agency, or may it be a microchip that’s allows you to fire your angry-bird a nanosecond faster than your friend. We seek to be the fastest, at almost everything, heeding less to the wonders of life that can only be enjoyed at snail pace.
I have watched days flutter past my sight without even the slightest adieu, thus ordinary seconds seem a lot like nanoseconds to me. Only a calendar would remind you of the fact; making it one of the most potent destructors of self motivation. I have yearned to change myself, remarkably, and I added a deadline to it. The deadline had come and gone, and I was still nothing more or less than who I was. I planned the things that would follow. Allocated time slots for the things I would be doing, but there I was, looking back, trying to figure out at which station I missed the train. Although I missed the express train that would undoubtedly take me to my destination, I was now left with the choice of boarding the snail paced observation steam engine. A train that will make me come to my senses and end my game of hide and seek with reality, a train that will show me how to face life as it is, and not lie to myself with a thousand schedules and a million agendas. It chugs down the valley and up the hillside. Taking me down as I succeed, and up as I fail. It speaks a voice so ethereal and wise, telling me to bow down in humbleness when I succeed, and to rise up in spirit when I fail. The steam engine slowly but steadily passes the beautiful landscape, to which I would have been blinded, if I hadn’t missed the express.
I see the lush greenery depicting my childhood, the days I spent learning the trade, the trade of life. There are trees that greet me at every intersection, the teachers and mentors who instilled the values I stand for. There flows a river down by the countryside, reminding me of the plethora of friends I had, the occasional waterfall depicts the friends that stood out from that plethora. I see towns and cities awake to a new day, relishing the mere bliss of the morning, I remember the people who inspired to awaken my sleeping identity. The many stations I pass tell me of the many decisions I made, to get down or to continue. Wherever I go, I simply glance over my shoulder and I see two staggering mountains looking over me, with the same gaze that I see in the eyes of my parents.
Halfway down my journey, I hear news that the express train had long reached it’s destination and is on the verge of ending it’s return journey, ready to take another bountiful of youngsters on a colorless, monotonous and empty ride to the end.
