It’s a fairly windy evening, and when I say evening, I am generous with my phrasing. The day is almost at its end. But I must make good on how I have motivated myself to sit at this desk. I must make it look larger than it is.
The days of April have been haphazard and all over the place, like the laundry I am yet to move to the cupboard that, in itself, needs some reorganising. Everything seems to be all over the place in this room, but I have been making sure that I live properly, and when I say that, I am still being generous with my phrasing. I have only ensured that I do all there is to do on a given day: that I move my body as much as I can, that I work my mind with diligence, and that I do at least one thing that makes my heart beat. It has been a simple philosophy for years, but things have added on top of one another.
And ever so often, this perfection shows its true face. I learn, once again, that my insistence on my perfect days is only possible in isolation, and since intentional isolation is impossible in this world, regardless of how hard you try, I will forever find myself in scuffles like the one I am in now—perpetually tired, stretched thin.
I must be myself, and I must also be a part of the world. What a proper dilemma when one knows only to take away from the other. How do we go about it, I wonder? How do I go about it? I do not know.
The door to the balcony is open, and the wind blows outside, whistling with all its might. I do not have the answer to escape this entrapment I habitually put my foot in, but I can stop worrying. I can get out onto the balcony barefoot on the sheets of grass. I can take a moment for myself. That is what I will do then; we must always do what we can.
Enough of this writing, enough of this day; a slice of respite awaits me. I must go and humour myself, then.
There is still time for tomorrow.