Grandfather clock in a country house

I miss certain moods; the space, the silence, the slow tick of a grandfather clock in a country house where time seemed to almost burst in fat, rich tension.

Here, like London, I feel like a boat in rapids.
You get addicted to this, addicted to speed. I guess at it’s core lies the thrill of death. But I miss that mood. Pure inspiration, pure thought and feeling.
Indulgent? maybe a little, but then it offered the chance to take life in, to ponder it.
Here, there is only time to live it.
But when I want to steal away, find that peace again, I have to work at it. Fight to slow down. Cut swathe through the sensation of imminent boredom and the illusion of monstrous anxieties, which really are just shadows cast by my former self, a trick of the light.
Call a halt.
Call it to a stop!

And here I lie now. Sipping gently at the moment and maybe letting a cheeky smile play about my lips. Let others race about instead, the machine turning; the grind that never stops.
I just lie here.
Staring up at the clouds passing between me and the sun.
There isnt a lot going through my mind right now and to be honest, I find some relief in that.