When the city stirs in the first rays of light, when birdlings chirp themselves awake to receive their first meal of the day, when the sweeping sound of automobiles brush the tarmac roads, building itself a symphony as its frequency rises. When the streetlights dim as the sunshine seeps in, when night fauna arrive home to escape the heat to come.
When the city is still, when its inhabitants are sleeping, exhausted from its day of bustling busying of busy things. When the silence echoes off building blocks, trees blanketed in a lasting shadow of the night. When the occasional squeaking of misunderstood creatures is heard, when the deafening chorus of cars eventually dies down, and those who remain strike passing curiosity of plausible stories tied to their night journey.
It is during these times that one is most inspired. Thoughts no longer drowned out by the day’s worry and the need to fix things that don’t really need fixing. It is during these times when one can be at peace with oneself – still, content, tranquil – without a care in the world. When the world seems to stand still, and thus giving one the gift, the same illusion which so many constantly chase after all their lives.
A gift of Time.