Inertia is that fickle friend, who talks not of accomplishment but of inaction. Work, it claims, seems so far from here and such an effort to begin.

Slow, slow, slow down is the message; and in ever-slowing, the work that lies a head seems to be growing ever-greater. Tasks that once seemed small now loom large; events that seemed so close to inspire urgent fear now seem far too long in the future to worry with now.

Slow ’til you stop, and in motionless pose repose. Settle down and watch the world pass by, its frenetic speed and frantic, grasping actors a warning to those tempted to participate in the rat rate – a race whereby those racing can see nothing but the race, and those nearest to him. Neither the beginning nor the ending hold any especial meaning, and the journey is obscured by the quest for speed, speed, speed.

‘Tis a tempting message, once that still center has been reached. Such an effort to beginning moving, accelerate, and maintain one’s place. But inaction has its consequences, and those are hard to bear.