Wandering Thoughts

There's something peculiar about Sunday mornings in the city. The streets are quieter, the usual rush replaced by a lazy calm. I sat by the window of my favorite corner café this morning, watching the world go by at half its normal speed.

An elderly man walked his dog past the bookstore across the street. They've been doing this same route for years, I imagine. Some things don't need to change to remain perfect.

I spent last weekend revisiting books I loved in my twenties. It's strange how the same words can feel entirely different when read by an older version of yourself. The characters haven't changed, but I have.

What struck me most was how my sympathies shifted. The rebels I once idolized now seem reckless; the cautious adults I found boring now appear wise. Perspective, I suppose, is the only true measure of time.