#presence

#presence

When we slow down enough to truly notice, everyday life reveals quiet moments of wonder. A child's gleeful laughter, the rhythm of a shared meal, or the gleam of sunlight on a playground fountain-these are the small, unfiltered joys of being alive. But in this technological age, these moments are often interrupted. We reach instinctively for our phones, eager to capture or share rather than simply feel.

It looks effortless when done well: hips swaying, bodies gliding in sync-the kind of chemistry that makes onlookers swoon. But take one class, and you'll quickly realize: Oh...this is a masterclass in feeling inadequate. First, there's the proximity issue. You're asked to step into a stranger's arms, chest to chest, and breathe normally. Easier said than done. You become hyper-aware of everything: your posture, your scent, whether your hips are doing that figure-8 thing, up-back-and-down, or more of a "confused washing machine" motion. It's like mindfulness with a side of mortification.

We sat in our living room, on the off-white tweed couch. I ran my fingers along the seam, slowly, as if trying to memorize its texture. In that quiet room, dimly lit and strangely alive, I felt the shape of time itself. It wasn't abstract. It wasn't a number on a screen or the sweep of a clock's hand. It felt real - like a second skin, like air thickening into water. I wasn't counting the hours anymore; I was living inside them.

Our culture teaches us to prioritize utility over humanity, making us overlook the unique worth and rich inner worlds of individuals.

Time isn't the main thing. It's the only thing.

If you listen to anything closely enough, it becomes music.