I spent the first half of this empty Saturday talking to friends on the phone about the little fits of nuisance to find solace and belonging. All the while, I kept looking out the balcony door, wondering how the weather was frustratingly unideal and, frankly, not the kind of hot like a sumptuous meal on a cold day or like a slice of pizza with bubbling cheese coming fresh out of the oven, but like water in a bottle that was forgotten in the car the entire afternoon drinking which does nothing to quench your thirst but only make you feel that taking that sip is, and might forever be, one of the greatest regrets of your life. The lifeless air surrounding me feels like a perpetual heartbreak, but not the one that you use to sculpt poems out of; instead, one that is so pedestrian that to make even a verse out of it would be a crime against all those who have ever written poems before. Has June always been this dreary, or has this one arrived like a detached coworker who arrives with no smile on his face and no hello on his tongue, only a sense of obligation that he had to come in today like he does, like everyone expects?
The coffee has been sitting here for hours and has not gone cold. It has maintained this temperature like how the sky has maintained its stance for being right in the centre of blue and grey. Perhaps, this day, given how slow and, if I am being honest, useless it seems, is the perfect excuse to do nothing at all. Read a book, maybe or lie down. I believe on days like this one, like how they have been for this past week or so, that is the only course of action—nothingness. Instead of resisting the absence of energy, you give into it, you surrender the ounce of vigour you had, and you fade into the hours that all look the same. So, perhaps, until the rain the weather report so confidently shows arrives, I will be as lifeless as everything and everybody around me.
My neighbours from the apartment straight ahead of mine hung some clothes on the railing of their balcony as I wrote these words. It has been a while since then. Not a single breeze blew them since—not even a little bit. This should not bother me as much as it does, but it does.