Sitting alone in my kitchen, listening to the rhythms of the house. The whir of the refrigerator. The hum of the laptop. Dryer rumbling in the room next door, its bass notes out of time with the high pitched squeak of the washer. There is a whoosh as the heater kicks in. It makes me realize that I’m cold.
I should be writing.
I should be reading.
I should be cleaning.
I am just sitting. Taking it all in. Or ignoring it all. Depends on how you look at it. It doesn’t really matter.
The shadows are lengthening outside. The glare of early afternoon is giving way to the dull glow of early evening. There is no revelation during this trance, this melancholy meditation. No sense of peace or enlightenment. Only a hollow resignation.