Time You Can Touch: Musings on Watches
My mechanical watch runs two minutes slow. I could adjust it, but I've grown fond of this small imperfection. In a world obsessed with atomic precision, there's something wonderfully human about a timepiece that breathes with its own subtle rhythm.
The watch on my wrist doesn't buzz with notifications or track my steps. It simply marks the passing of time through the steady heartbeat of gears and springs. When I listen closely in a quiet room, I can hear its gentle ticking, a sound that's become increasingly rare in our digital age.
Each morning, the ritual begins anew. Picking up the watch from my bedside table, feeling its weight, winding the crown with deliberate turns. These small moments of connection ground me in the physical world before the day's digital deluge begins.
A mechanical watch asks little but offers much. It requires no charging, no updates, no subscriptions. It won't become obsolete next year. With basic care, it might outlive me, marking time for someone else's mornings long after I'm gone.
This isn't about horology or luxury. My watch is a humble automatic, chosen for its simplicity rather than its brand. What matters is its presence as a constant companion, doing one thing well without demanding attention.
In return for this simplicity, it teaches patience. Sometimes the date needs adjusting at month's end. Sometimes it needs a gentle shake to wake up. These aren't inconveniences but opportunities to pause, to touch time itself, to remember that not everything in life needs to be instant or perfect.
Some might see mechanical watches as outdated technology. I see them as quiet rebels against our culture of constant connectivity and upgrade cycles. They remind us that time isn't just something to be measured and optimized, but something to be experienced and appreciated.
My watch runs two minutes slow, and that's exactly right.