Oh, how I love the quiet, and by quiet, I do not mean silence, but the subtle, more personal quiet. The music plays; it is not a silent house, but it is a quiet moment still. The clouds outside get ready to pour once again, as they have for most of this year, and the moment remains quiet despite their talking under their breath. I spent the evening sitting in front of the TV, watching episode after episode of a comedy show I had missed when it first aired. I find the jokes and my own laughter echo through the flat, yet things are quiet. What a wonderful place to be in. What an incredibly soft net my life has landed into and settled in without any hints to bite on—not even a nibble.
Just an hour ago, I talked to a friend, and in my message, I wrote how I only exist in my corner of the world now. I used to be so involved and active with the others—I wrote further. Now, I keep most of myself to myself, and what is shared is shared carefully. I do not give myself away as hastily as I did before. I do not open the door as soon as there is a knock. I wait instead. I wait and take my time. Is this being reclusive? I cannot answer. I still meet people, and I do enjoy going outside as much as the next person. But then, if someone asks me about myself, I keep myself limited. It may be unjust to what they think of me and the image that forms in their head when they think of me next, but then, there are many things more unjust and urgent than a person wishing to be unbothered.
I must say I am delighted today! And that I was happy yesterday and the day before it. I look around this apartment as I cogitate my decision to change cities, and there is a hesitation in me, but then, there is always a hesitation when we think of change. The good thing is, foolish as I may be, I do not rush into things now. There is still time to decide, plan and have everything in order. There is enough time for everything if we quietly take things one at a time.