The speed at which we move says a lot. In the modern moment, it’s hard to ascertain.
It’s easy to confuse pace with haste, with taste, with purpose, or the absence of it. It’s just as easy to dismiss a hasty pace as purposeless. We can say anything about pace. You can just say anything at all. Sometimes it’s true, sometimes it isn’t.
Pace is an inside-out thing, yet it’s judged outside-in. It’s often invisible, but always present in how we think, work, love, and tinker. A pace with taste is hard to miss.
Like a heartbeat, pace is variable. It doesn’t define who we are, but it does define whether we’re alive or not. Starkly objective until the moment it becomes strictly defining.
The pace can make you. The pace can break you. Either way, it’s the pace.
These are just words about a pace.
One foot in front of the other.
I’m just saying things.