The time of the moon

At some point in life, we realise that running is no longer enough.

It's not enough to know where north is, what comes next, or how long until the weekend.

A moment comes when we feel like slowing down.

Out of curiosity more than weariness. To see what's really there along the way.

Perhaps simply out of a wish to add a touch of poetry to our lives.

To step outside in the morning and notice whether the air smells of sea or of rain.

To talk with an old friend and listen to the sound of their pauses, too.

To look at the moon, for instance.

As children, someone points it out to us. As grown-ups, we forget it.

Then one evening, we catch sight of it by chance. Huge and golden, above the rooftops of the neighbourhood.

And we stop.

That's when we remember there's another kind of time. The time of tides, of wind on our skin, of faraway sounds. The time of words left unsaid and silences that speak.

The time of poetry. Of love letters.

The time of things that are in no hurry.

And maybe, every now and then, that's all it takes.