Hours

(First at all I apologize, I’m not in a creative mood right now, and this text has born mainly because I forced myself to write something not just for inspiration, I promise to write more an better, soon.)

One hour, one minute, one second and everything was the same.

The old gray clock that hangs on the wall make the time pass with a cruel precision, meanwhile the world was dancing, guided with a invisible metronome that marked they steps with invisibles threads in the ankles.

For some people the time was nervous, like ants that run on your body when you started to fill so many things, passing so fast and without preoccupation, don’t allowing tasting the things that you like and making you be late to the places, except in those “see of” that always come early that what yours expected.

For others the slowness of the time was disturbing, always making to wait something, something that it’s late to came or never came, inflexible rhythm without a portion of compassion for the people that depends on it, the time marked the solitude and confidence that tomorrow it’s going to be something more.

For these many hate the time and they symbols and the old gray clock that hangs on the wall senses the frozen glance of those what pass near by, but he was proud with the precision of him work and know that for everybody was exactly the same time.

One day, one month, one year and everything was the same.