There’s something really nice about just sitting here, writing whilst my partner writes. It’s a slow day. A still day. We’ve done very little, but we’ve talked and talking is good. And it’s a nice day. A pleasant day.
Originally our plan was to head into the city. It was predicted to rain all day so the city would have been empty. This would have been great as we’d have it all to ourselves, or at least a good chunk of it. Would have been great for photography. Alas, the weather cleared. There no longer was reason to go to the city.
Well there’s plenty of reason, but the reason here was lacking. It was not what we wanted. Instead we spent the day at home and we’ve been sitting here, trying to no procrastinate but instead procrastinating, and now we are writing. I am writing; they are writing. This is all writing process, and this is great. This is a nice way to be about things as we can just take it easy. Relax, you know. Those sorts of things.
There’s something small and boring about this. Something nice and relaxed, and I like it. I like that we are able to relax in this particular moment. I like that we can have a slow day, because a boring day can be a nice day. It’s not what we planned. It’s still nice.
I find it nice as I spent so much of my life stressing about things. Frequently in a state that involves the distress of the conscious. Of pressure on the body. Right now… I’m mostly okay. I am breathing. I am relaxing. I am enjoying the time that I have, and I know I need to do more of that because I don’t do it anywhere near as much as I should.
I’m wondering to myself about the reflection 0n this table. I’m wondering about the spread of shadow upon a roof I can see. I see tiles and they seem layered over the tiles on other roofs. There are patterns and layers, and gradually this room is darkening. And it’s all so mundane and boring and wonderful at the same time. All this stuff.
I just feel easy and tired and… yeah. Just a good time. A nice time. A pleasant time. And I feel myself growing incredibly tired, and that’s okay too because it means I am actually relaxed.
The trees sway as wind passes around them, and birds make their sounds before they fly about. The room grows old and tired, too, and two of us are trying to work out their thoughts. Two of us are trying to work out what to say before words are put into being, and there’s no pressure. We are creating, sure, but there is no pressure to succeed or exceed. We’re just getting the things done that we want to get done, and we’re taking it easy, and the day is nearly over, and it’s nice.
The time it took to write five-hundred words: 07:48:04
I started off writing pretty quickly. Slowed down a bit, but that’s okay. I don’t mind here.
Am I happy with this bit of writing? Not sure. I like what I’ve written, but the way I’ve written it… Oh well.
Written at home.
Stupidity Hole 