When I woke up, I wanted to lie down on the lounger and read for a bit. It was a Saturday, and while I was not sick now, I was still awfully tired. In many ways, I am almost always awfully tired. It does not stop me from living my life. Some of us have exhaustion running through us like blood. We do not deem it a different state of being. I looked at the lounger, and it was flooded with clothes I was yet to move to the cupboard. They had been there for a few days now, and each day I had told myself I would do it the next day. Now, the day had come, and I could not read. With the sigh that accompanies all adults forced into doing a chore, one by one, I folded and kept all the clothes in the almirah, each in its proper place. And now, the lounger was clear, but my motivation to read had waned entirely, so I made some coffee and sat down to write instead.
When I had written a little, and I felt distracted, I got off the chair and stood on the balcony with the cup of coffee that never leaves my side. I looked at the tree in the building complex beside mine. I often look at it for no reason in particular. It was still completely green, and this disappointed me a little. It meant how autumn still had some time before it was fully here. It was time before we would start seeing it in the leaves on the ground in all flavours of green and brown, in pumpkin spice lattes and hot chocolates, in the evening breeze that never seizes, in the scarves and the jackets, and in things large and small. It was still a bit before autumn.
All life is waiting for things to happen, and when they arrive, waiting for other things. For a long time, I have waited for calm and peace, and now that I have some semblance of it, I now wait for the seasons to change. A person must wait for something. To wait for things, to do it patiently is the definition of living. I am alive because I am waiting for something to happen. I am alive as long as there is this wait. To be alive is to look forward to something.