Isn’t it lovely to be lazy? The hours that slip by, muggy and golden and fat with borrowed time, taste sweeter than any others that pass.
Today I have showered, eaten, painted and laughed. The indolence that comes from feeling hours fill with things I like sits heavy in my bones, and the few things I must do, for which there is a deadline set my something other than my itching fingers or my stomach, loom far ahead like the horizon of another country.
Isn’t it beautiful to be useless, if just for a day? And outside of my room, my house, my street, my ignorant impermanent impractical Sunday afternoon, people are living and dying and their lives are not paused for 24 aimless hours in limbo.
Isn’t it lovely to be tired when you know you can sleep?
(i wrote this on, let’s guess, a sunday afternoon when it was so effing hot and i did nothing all day)