I slid my curtains open, and in the wake of my grogginess, blinding light was all I saw. It was not a light that burned you, though. It was a comforting, encompassing white hug. For all the sweaty inconveniences they brought along, warmer days were a respite for those prone to cold, in all sense of the word. The rest of the picture came on slowly, in layers of detail as I opened my eyes, quite like a television you had to smack to get its picture stable. What a wonderful morning, I thought. What a day to be alive! It was all I could think of as I went to the kitchen and ground a handful of beans for my coffee. With a cup of coffee and a well-rested disposition, I sat down to write.
But what could you write about in April? When I thought of April, I thought of the pause. April was a harmless stranger—no, not a friendly one, just harmless and innocuous. It felt like a soft, restful hug between what had happened and what was to happen. Not that I had anything against this sudden uneventfulness. Too much happens, too fast, all the time. It is an immeasurable pleasure for something to not happen at all. It was all I wished for on most days—for a day to be terribly simple, to be so run of the mill that I forget it the moment I shut my eyes, leaving only a vague memory of a series of good days behind.
I had some things to do, but beyond the short to-do list, all I had to do was live and, if possible, laugh. A noble agenda and the hardest of them all. It was the most important thing to do—to pause. There were different ways to pause. For those looking to pause a day, a nap or a walk were both perfectly suited for the task. To pause a week, Thursdays did the job quite well. To pause a year, April and September were both equally capable options, depending on the season. And what to pause an eventful life? Well, what indeed. I wouldn’t know a thing about it. Perhaps, I shall revisit the question in five years time. I have just begun to slow things down.