For the last couple of days, we’ve all been waking up with sweaty palms and a sad, muggy air in the room. June casts its spell on the world, and suddenly, everything is warmer than you’d like it. Outside the window is a world stuck in time, almost overcast, with no sign of any activity, no wind. The peace offering of dried leaves from last evening, brought to the balcony by the barely blowing breeze, seem to be fixed, almost glued to the grass. There is such listlessness outside; it has begun to rub off on me and my attitude toward whatever I do. But the day is getting on, the things to do are piling on, and here I am, struggling to write in the face of this dead air, this more than morbid day, and when I say morbid, it is only because it appears as if there is not an ounce of life in it. There are days in summer when energy flows all around you, and then, there is a summer like this, too.
My position is not lost on me. To be able to waste this amount of thought on the weather requires a steadfastness in life that I do not deny. Things are stable, as they can be in many ways, and it has led me to worry about the weather. I have things to do and decades to worry about, but the days could not be more yellow and warm. There is little else I need to do than write these words, work a job, and ensure I am well. Just now, a pigeon landed on the balcony in a languid stupor. If it was exhausted, it had been exhausted a while now. I thought it would fly away as they usually do, but spent as it appeared, it decided to walk around for a bit, and now, it seems to be catching its breath under the shade of the wall in the corner. And here I sit, sipping coffee, looking outside. This day has gotten on already. Four hours since I woke up, it seems not a second has passed. I wonder when it will rain. I hope it rains soon. This sordid listlessness has ensnared people and pigeons alike, it seems.