It’s a Sunday afternoon you could be, and apparently should be doing something outside and more agreeable and instead the day is carrying on without your involvement this time because it’s been too many since you’ve been able to open your book. You’ve been busy. All week in fact and probably actually for longer than that, having forgotten the choices you used to have, and the feelings that a human gets to feel whose life is enriched and balanced by the guiding implorations of his own Nature. Can’t accustom to modes of recreation. Can’t seem to adapt without having a process to immerse in, or remember what things you do that are for your own souls recovery, and you now despise having to designate a gap to read, to write, to do anything of the things you enjoy when so much of this life is partitioned, allocated and dispersed already. Being has become exhausting and static, and you, jaded, trudging forward into grooves of chore and an obligation to just take part and be quiet, have somehow invited these dull perspectives by expending so much attempting to live in their opposition. Then, too many options was always the problem in the first place so you burned all your bridges to remove some of that noise, to be able to move forward unhindered, to somewhere or anywhere and not be stopped with indecision.
The day pales, wanes of its light and opportunity, and you let it. It is but a day towards other days the same and you are so tired, that the feeling as you drift into sleep is so exhilarating, you are charged to a more intense and fatiguing wakefulness. It depletes as much as gives, to be always wringing out what juice holds life. The pressure can be immense that you lay upon yourself, to contribute than rather detract in this world. To be always climbing, and calculating a climb, never having or making arrangements of an arrival anywhere, and withal missing the sunshine on a hill and the way birds seem to hang, suspended in the path of its golden rain, under rule of some primordial wisdom. Might well it be out there for all you know, finally the era for which you have been all this time labouring, when fortunes cycle has rounded, veering unto your position, and, for better or worse, you have arrived at the confidence that presently it simply can not matter. You don’t want or need to participate in everything so much as observe, and recover in quietude a wholeness of self, left behind. Tend there, soul and honour this gift. Sometimes, the drafts, or whatever mundane task needs doing needs for now to stay undone. Ever something will be undone, for all things can’t all at once accomplished be. Quit considering all the things considerable for once and accept the chance to sit and just listen to your beating heart and the flow of air coursing your lungs, escaping and blending with the atmosphere, with the melodies and pulsing of your entire being and a throbbing Universal aliveness that will incite tears in the eyes, sourced from the deepest wells of pure and rushing emotion dammed up since youth, and every bit a significant element of the human experience.