I lie in the bed to sit and write, but all that comes to my mind are small, rebellious distractions or yawns, large and small. At first, this bothers me and annoys me a little: that I have little to say. But then, I think of how generous the day has been to me, that I feel the soreness in my legs, that I feel the heaviness in my eyes, that my mind has wandered more times than I would like to admit since I began writing this passage are all but proof that I was alive today. I lie here, fretting over the severe lack of profundity in my words today—or lately. But I have been diagnosed with a case of simpler days and, I would perhaps dare to say it, contentment. There is no cure. I am now forever infected. What shall I do, I wonder? Not much, not much indeed. I shall hope these days stretch like the spanning steppes I saw on my journey to and fro last year, going between cities I may never visit again—sprawling and unending. I hope, with all my heart, that this is the case. I believe I dare when I say this in front of others at the off chance of getting ridiculed, have myself painted into a caricature, pronounced the village idiot, but I say it anyway, that I would prefer to do the dishes and the infinite chores in life than anything else. That if it were up to me, I would wake up and eat and live like a person was meant to live, and sleep early and see the sun’s first light in the morning the next day. And what do I suggest when I say living? To not believe in the many carrots they toss in front of us so we keep moving. Instead, make things for the betterment of all, and if all is too large a group, then for those right next to us. And pay no matter to what we make: it could be a painting or even a chair. But to do it with the aliveness of being a person, and not simply for a profit or to serve the needs of some mogul we will never meet, or chasing a bottom line for others, put simply. And I think that doing the dishes and the other chores that lead or follow are the closest to this dream; I reckon that is why I enjoy them as much as I do. It is the only time I am useful unconditionally. And if it is not for anyone else, then, at least, for myself. Now, that holds merit. At least, I would think and say so.