The light from the sun outside reaches about the halfway mark of the hall, touching the rug barely and hesitantly. I lie on the couch and look at the brown parcel box, which I have not had time to cut the tape off of and open. It is morning, and to be fair, I have time right now, but things that are delayed for a bit often get delayed by and large. While waking up early did not do much for me, I still woke up with some restfulness within me, spending time in the joy of nothingness. This has given a soft pastel sort of hue to the entire day. It is the middle of April, and the city has boiled into a pot of hot chaos, but this moment is a respite from all that and more. My life, too, has had a surge of bedlam, so this little crumb of calm is a welcome change.
It is April, and I think about writing, about art, about all things, and I wonder if I want to keep writing. And, of course, it is a beaten path. I have stopped writing before, and then, I found myself here again, and it has happened thrice and I know better than to cater to this thought. But I ought to paint more. I want to make more things. I want to do so much; I feel as paralysed by the possibility today as I had been about a decade ago. Everything can be learned if you spend enough time on it. It is time, then, and not talent or ability, that limits us. At least, this is how it is for me. I am much too confident in what I can do, which is, more or less, everything I can think of and, more importantly, make time for. And as for doing it well, which is what most people mean when they ask if you can do something, there are a few things I know of, and I reckon there would be a plethora more if I had the time for it.
And, of course, I want to work with wood and tools, tinkering in a quiet shed, making something that truly exists. After all, all I have ever wanted from my life is to have the time and space to build myself a chair.