The sky‑blue watch and the world before screens.
Some childhoods grow loud and crowded.
Mine grew quietly — in a small house, almost off‑grid, where the days stretched long and gentle, and time moved at a pace the world has forgotten.
Back then, life didn’t arrive through screens.
It arrived through sunlight, wind, and the sound of someone calling your name from outside.
There was no internet to fill the silence,
so the silence became a place to live in,
not something to escape.
Before the world became fast,
I had more hobbies than I could finish.
I didn’t just paint —
I shaded, blended, layered,
working with oil pastels until my fingers were stained with color.
I tried to make shadows soft,
light believable,
faces gentle.
I didn’t know the word “fine art” yet,
but that’s what I was trying to create —
quiet beauty,
one stroke at a time.
Every drawing felt like a small world I built myself.
A world that didn’t need electricity,
just patience, imagination,
and the slow rhythm of a peaceful afternoon.
And in the middle of that simple life,
there was one object that felt like treasure:
my watch.
Not old.
Not borrowed.
Not shared.
Just mine.
My dad brought it home one afternoon,
quietly, the way he did most things.
He didn’t make a speech or turn it into a ceremony.
He simply placed it in my hands —
a sky‑blue analog watch made for kids,
bright and cheerful,
with a face that looked almost too grown‑up
for its playful color.
I remember the cool plastic warming on my wrist,
the soft click of the buckle,
the way the second hand swept forward with a confidence
I didn’t yet understand.
I checked it constantly,
not because I needed to know the time,
but because it made me feel important —
as if the world had given me
my own little piece of responsibility.
That watch became part of my daily rhythm.
It ticked softly while I shaded the corner of a tree,
rested beside me while I blended oil pastels into a sunset,
and glowed faintly under the moonlight
when I held it up to the window at night.
Evenings were my favorite.
When the moon was full,
its light spilled across the windows
like a silver blanket.
The whole room softened —
shadows gentler,
air cooler,
time slower.
Sometimes I lay awake just to watch the moonlight move
across the floor,
across my bed,
across the sky‑blue watch on my wrist.
It felt like time itself was drifting through the room,
unhurried, peaceful,
as if it had nowhere else to be.
There was something good about those days before the internet.
Something honest.
Something steady.
A kind of slowness that didn’t feel like waiting,
a kind of silence that didn’t feel empty,
a kind of freedom that didn’t need a screen to exist.
Life was smaller,
but somehow it felt bigger.
And then life moved on.
The watch disappeared somewhere along the way —
lost in the quiet shuffle of growing up.
It’s been almost thirty years now.
The watch is gone,
but the feeling it gave me never left.
And now, as Pam,
I understand why I love my Swatch so much.
Not because it’s fancy,
but because it carries the same softness,
the same innocence,
the same quiet pride
that my sky‑blue watch once gave me.
It reminds me of who I was
before the world sped up.
Before screens replaced silence.
Before time became something to chase
instead of something to feel.
And yes —
I miss the old days before the internet.
But missing them doesn’t make me sad.
It makes me gentle.
It reminds me to live slowly,
to choose peace on purpose,
to protect the quiet parts of my life
the way I once protected that little blue watch.
That’s how I live now —
peacefully, intentionally,
with a softness that doesn’t need permission.
I wake up early.
I let the morning light settle before I move.
I keep my days simple,
my heart steady,
my pace human.
Because a simple childhood leaves marks like that.
Soft ones.
Quiet ones.
Ones that stay long after the object is gone.
And if you read this,
maybe you feel the same —
maybe some part of you remembers the slow days,
the quiet evenings,
the small treasures that shaped you
long before the world became loud.
Simple was never less.
Simple was enough.
And in many ways,
it still is.
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