I sit with my hand on my hand not because the endless list of tasks has given me respite but because all of us need to sit quietly now and then, and when I get tired of doing that too, I get up, move about the house, and tidy things up. And then, I sit to write. Little else to do, and little to accomplish; the burst of fastidiousness subsides. My words appear all out of place, haphazard, making this piece seem to have a distinct slapdash quality.
But then again, what is the prize? This is a thankless practice. The light outside has been snuffed out for hours, and the day is almost over, and I am tired. My mind wanders, and my muscles ache, and I wonder if this is the precise moment of extreme aliveness, if this is what the greats and the unsung alike have felt for generations before I have, that I am tired suggests, in all measure, that I have done something, and if I have done something, surely, I have lived, have I not?
Is that not prize enough, I wonder? And then, no answer echoes in the room. I settle for it and call it a conclusion. Then, I sit on the couch, my hands once again over one another.