Bookmark #805

The soporific air of satiation lingers softly through these stolid weeks of November. I was drowsy in the afternoon. It is the night, and I am still drowsy. A whole day has passed, and my disposition has changed little. The sun during the day has nestled itself in my heart. The only thing I had any energy for today was games with my nephew that he invented. Oh, how he acts as if he were some king and we were his subjects—rightfully, of course, because that is the case. But for everything else, I had nothing to give, not even a tiny piece of my existence, not even the little, stray crumb which manages to escape unseen. All of myself is my own now. The little I give, I give selectively.

What have I accomplished this year? What was there to accomplish in the first place? There are years we set the motions, and there are years we go through them. This was the latter. It began with a flicker and ended before I saw to most things on my countless lists, like a matchstick that burns before you can light the candle. Now, I wait for this month to end, and the next, to take another stick out of the box.

Recently, I began getting this apartment in order. Pictures and letters waiting to be framed were framed. The plants that died a while ago were pulled out of their planters. The balcony remains undone, but I will get to it. There is always something to do. There is the balcony now, and then, once I am done with it, something else will take its place. This, again, is no complaint. This is but a description.

Often, when you make a remark, it is perceived as confession. You tell them you are sleepy, and they will ask you to work less, eat properly, or have fewer cups of coffee during the day. To do what, I wonder? To what end should people change themselves so others can take their remarks as they are? Life is a balancing act, the suspended animation you feel as you lay on the couch for the little time you get between dinner and sleep.

This is the in-between.

When December knocks on my door asking for an inventory of my days, all I would do is look at it with my gaping mouth and ask:

How are you already here? I must have lost track of time lying on the couch again.

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