Rain before work, the kind that makes the street look varnished. I stood at the window longer than the coffee required. Nothing was decided in those minutes, but the day that followed was better for them, and I have stopped asking that kind of time to justify itself.
Walked the long way home to finish a thought. It did not finish, but it loosened, which is often the useful part. Speed is good for errands and bad for questions.
We are our memory, we are that chimerical museum of shifting shapes, that pile of broken mirrors.
What then is time? If no one asks me, I know; if I wish to explain it to one who asks, I know not.
April, in the ledger: more mornings kept than lost. That is the whole report, and it is enough.
The morning does not owe me clarity. I owe the morning attendance. On the days I remember which direction the debt runs, the work goes considerably better.
Nothing is ours except time.
January, counted honestly: four books begun, one finished, eleven mornings kept, three lost to a cold, and one argument I would take back. A modest ledger, and the first one I have not exaggerated.
I kept one rule last year and nothing else: the first hour belonged to whatever I would regret not doing. No list, no system, no reward. Only the hour, and the honesty to admit afterwards how I had spent it.
The result is not a transformation. It is an accumulation. Twelve months of small, unglamorous mornings have produced more finished work than any of the elaborate schemes I once built to make myself productive, and the schemes were far more interesting to design.
What I did not expect is the effect on the rest of the day. When the hour has gone well, the afternoon can be ordinary without feeling wasted. The morning already paid the rent, so the rest of the day is allowed simply to be a day.