Time

Time is invaluable to me here. I live it, breathe it, revel in its mercies and abhore the cruel twists of fate that blatantly steal it from me. Such is the life I live. I mention time not for the sake of my inner poet's romantic streak, but because of my personal relationship with time. It is a relationship of the love-hate variety, for in one moment time is my unrelenting adversary as I race to catch a bus or train, and in the next it is my sole companion at a french café as we sip espresso to combat a sleepless night, watching the endless stream of people about their daily lives.
Several days ago I lost sight of time, both literally and figuratively. I was relieved of my watch while playing fútbol on a beautiful Barcelona beach with my Uruguayan friend Martin, and the next day of my cell phone in Dali's home town of Figueres. For days I was lost to time, and it to me, for better or worse. I missed two trains and one alhambra reservation while in this state of being, but I was also able, for the first time in a long time, to lose all sense of hurry and anxiety in the gardens of Sevilla's Alcazar. That is, until a security guard pulled me out of my trance to tell me that I wasn't allowed to lay in the grass. Proving my point, I have absolutely no idea how long I layed there listening to the birds and gazing at the sunlight playing through the trees before I was interrupted. It could have been two minutes or two hours.