Every day for the past two weeks, I’ve been waking up at 8:30, regardless of the time I fall asleep. This is a habit I would like to continue. More work has been completed, less time has been wasted, and overall, I feel that I have more hours in my day.
For the first few hours, I’m less depressed and a bit more enthusiastic about the day ahead of me. It isn’t gloomy as it often is, even if the weather doesn’t quite match.
Outside, rain coats the window with fat splotches of sky water. Inside, the air remains cool and constant. And around me, silence, nothing but the hundred thumps of recycled water raining down on my small plot of land.
“Finally, it’s raining!” My sister responds– it’s all so peaceful.
Writing comes to me easier with the sounds of nature and the silence it brings. A welcome replacement for the noisy nonsense that screeches through our smartphones. I’ve had enough bad news to last a couple lifetimes.
A moment to reflect
I step away for a moment and begin to look around: the open space, the difference between where I live today and where I was three years ago. At first, this place felt so strange to me. Most nights, I wrested with sleep and the memories of that old place where I once spent all my time.
Still, she haunts me, even now as I write this. A ghost I’m happy to see.
I am perplexed by the thought of passing time. How can a thing feel so good, feel so forever, as if nothing could ever match its perfection, the perfection in its beauty? And then one day it’s gone. Really gone. A scale has tipped over, like a mistake, because how could this ever happen? Not to me. Never me.
But it has.
Eventually, regret and all its synonyms, big and small, leak into my mind. I can’t help but think that if I hadn’t done any of this in the first place, I would be in a better place.
Maybe I should stop talking; maybe I’m better in silence.