I sit here like a prop in the passing afternoon scene, with the light shifting ever-so-softly every few minutes. The third cup of coffee sits on the corkwood coaster on the table; a few cold, leftover sips remain in it, probably waiting for the inevitable fate of being spilt into the sink. Time has passed today and I have watched it. It is all I have to show for the day so far, and no, I do not mean to sound even an ounce of guilt. I am proud of this day, how late it began, and how slow it is going. This languid energy, or lack of it to be literal, this lethargic torpor is what I have missed for over a month now. I have missed it without realising it like you miss the soft caress of a hand on your cheek or through your hair. You do not miss it outright, and you do not spend every waking minute thinking about it. But regardless of when that happens, irrespective of when you feel it again, you know it is what was missing for all the days prior.
And in this empty, vacuous moment, I have no thoughts, too. I have nothing to say and, surely, nothing to write about. Frankly, this is all I needed from a day like this: not to have anything on my mind, to watch my thoughts move to and fro like curtains bobbing softly, sweeping the little corner where they meet the wall, and going back again. This is how every thought has felt for the past hour or so, perhaps longer, and they have gone and come back, and I have done nothing. It is the perfect setup for a splendid evening.
And what will I do tonight? I do not know yet. Perhaps, go for a walk and read a little at a cafe. I might go out and play some games with strangers if I feel up to it and have absorbed enough warmth to waste some away. Maybe cook a hearty meal and save some for tomorrow. But all that is in a little bit. I must let a couple of hours pass until then. And then, when I am ready, perhaps, when the light slowly moves further down to skip this window. Then, I shall get out of this state of temporary permanence and become a person again. Until then, I am as much a part of this still life as the television remote on the table, as the clothes hung behind the door, as the potted plants on the refrigerator.