The hum of the laundry spinning around in the washing machine out in the washout is the only sound right now. That, and a dog—probably tiny given the timbre of his voice—barking away at the world to its heart’s content from a balcony in the distance. What a beautiful Sunday morning. What a beautiful day in itself despite its restfulness. And to think I did not believe them when they told me life could be wonderful and content if I waited through the storm. I thought them to be liars, tradesmen of the finest snake oil, where finest is, of course, a description of its quality of deception.
But has it not worked like this always? You go to sleep, thinking it to be the end of the world, and then, you wake up and there are things to do. And then, you do them, and soon what felt like the end of the world becomes but a distant memory, further from everything you know to be true, further than the cafe on the corner, further than the grocery store, further than the dog that has continued to bark away and celebrate the coming in of the new day.