I have a mind that paces. It steps across creaky planks, stops, toes a warped board, loses direction. It goes slowly, wears a groove, beats a convoluted path. Eventually, it gets there.
Slow and methodical, I’ve been called. Not very interesting to watch. Never good at telling war stories, with the swagger that my former colleagues favored when talking shop. I’d rather listen.
But don’t assume I’m easily impressed.