The bell from the church nearby rings once. Then, it rings again. Now, I could be sure a minute must have passed, but I look at the time, and an hour has gone by. What a tragically slow morning I find myself in. To motivate myself to do anything has been onerous and feels like lifting the heaviest, the largest weight in the world. And when I finally manage to sit down to write, the phone begs for my attention again. But it is no bother. There are people in my life. If they have something to say, I must listen to it: the annoyance of a friend’s redundant humour, the question they already know the answer to, and the advice they will never be bothered to follow; the long-drawn, factual, continual conversations with my brother about all that exists under the yellow sun, despite him never asking whether I want to engage on a topic or if it all matters to me; the sweet nothings of the morning in the most mellifluous voice from the love of my life. It is easy to move about life like you have something important to do, but what we have to do is seldom important. The important is in between. I know this like the back of my hand. But then, the demands of the world never cease, and it occurs to me once again that to be a living person is the most difficult task of all. And when I say “living”, I mean it in the most alive, most true sense of the word. Several people have jobs, have routines in the morning, have oatmeal off the breakfast menu at a chain brand cafe in a rush, but I would never want to be them. They are not living. But I must remind myself of this time and again, and over and over, and often between the chime of the bells atop the church in my beeline. To live is to remind yourself consistently of what it means to be living, and then do it again just for good measure. We are frighteningly foolish, forgetful creatures. We could convince ourselves a meeting at work is more important than laughter if left to our own devices.