In a sleepy village nestled among rolling hills and sunflower fields lived a young man named Tim. He was known for his hard work, a trait instilled in him by his father, a weathered farmer who had seen the seasons come and go. Yet Tim wore a constant look of weariness, a heavy sigh that punctuated even the smallest tasks. He felt suffocated by the endless nature of the work. One evening, as the sun shone orange over the horizon, Tim collapsed onto a wooden bench next to his father. “My grandmother said, ‘If work had an end, your grandfather would have done it by now,’” he groaned, quoting a country proverb. “I feel like I’m chasing a horizon that’s forever receding.” His father, his face carved with the wisdom of countless harvests, simply smiled. “The earth doesn’t ask for perfection, Tim, only care. The joy is in the care, not the completion.” On the other side of the fence, the old lady, the village baker, overheard their conversation. Wiping flour...
Human thoughts out loud