The feeling of going to sleep early, not because you want to, but because you are devastatingly exhausted and then waking up with a soft ache in your body, not because you did not sleep well, but quite the opposite, is incomparable and unparalleled. The restfulness of waking up early on the weekend and stretching yourself as you move about the house with your eyes peeled only partially does not come easily, for the exhaustion that compels you to sleep does not come easily, but when it does, you get to experience one of the affordable yet rare pleasures known: a good night’s sleep.
I woke up on the weekend, completely restored, and restored as I was, I thought about love. After some deliberation, however, I realised there were better things to do. Life is so much more than romance—so much to do and see. How glad I am that I get to live and do the things I do, go to sleep, and do them again. There is little space for all else. Now, I meet people but fail to call them afterwards. This may look like apathy to them, but it is only a side-effect of preoccupation for me. Alas, it does not bode well for my case. Then, I never see them again; if I do, it is months down the line and on accident. They tell me they found someone and that they are engaged now. For a second, I feel something along the lines of regret, but then, I brush it off like you brush yourself off when you have a habit of stumbling and falling on the street now and then. It changes nothing; you continue walking as if it never happened. It is a story that is getting old hastily as time continues to climb forward.
Time, time, it keeps passing. It is October already. A part of me questions where this year went, and another laughs and talks about happiness and joy. I am a mixture, a batter of all my ironies. It is the beginning of Saturday. Perhaps, I could make pancakes out of it.