I found this the other day, looking through my old things. Written under pressure (for a write-or-fail final), in 30-60 min, when I was younger. The original is in my first language, so it might not have translated that well. I decided I might as well post it.
Minutes
In the deafening silence of the desert, the motorcycle's roar sounds like a profanity.
Sometimes, he turns off the engine and listens to the silence (it's not easy to hear such silence in other places). Sometimes, he's too busy feeling the wind to care.
In the desert, time turns strange. He knows that, even there, there are people who carry clocks and count the hours. To him this seems bizarre. He thinks maybe he doesn't understand because he himself doesn't wear a clock. (That's not quite true. His cellphone keeps the time. He just doesn't bother to check.)
Following the hours and keeping appointments makes sense in the planes where the road is dusty and flanked by grass, or in the forests where he always wakes with his clothes wet from dew. On those places, there are seasons to remind all that the time is passing, changing, and all living beings must act accordingly. Winter encourages hiding or travel, waiting for the cold and the ice to pass (and the snow reminds him it's time to buy presents and head home, because the children would never forgive him for forgetting Christmas). Spring comes and brings birdsong and courting rituals, and he gathers flowers (some for their mother, some for the graves).
In the desert, things change little. There is the dawn and there is the sunset, and he must sometimes stop to eat and sleep. Sometimes he keeps going. Sometimes he goes for miles and miles, maybe circling, maybe going straight ahead, and he hunts and eats little and does not sleep until his hands are trembling from exhaustion. In the desert, things change little. Some sands move, and the few plants always struggle to survive. There is nothing to mark the passage of time here and, sometimes, he almost believes that, the next times he checks the messages on his cellphone, he will hear the voices of those who have gone ahead.
People have strange ideas about time. They say that time goes by far too quickly. They say that time doesn't go by quickly enough. They say that time drags on.
He doesn't care, one way or another. He allows the days to pass him by like the wind and moments under the stars to become eternities, and keeps on living.
(end)
...It's a bit more poetic and pretentious than I remembered. *shrug* Oh well. Any thoughts and criticism will be welcome and appreciated.