A Regular Day of Yours
On a typical day, waking up early, preparing a cup of tea leisurely by the window, welcoming the early sunlight with a shimmering golden kitten by my side.
It’s a bowl of piping hot and fragrant spicy instant noodles, precisely the taste of conquering after a sleepless night, softening the body in the crisp 16-degree weather while the sky remains clear.
I admire a few trees, chat with them, praising their sweet nectar, urging them to grow quickly and bloom. I arrange my belongings, tidy up the room in a circle so that the empty bed invites me to wander through twenty pages of a book. Several books, some new and some old, with the lingering fragrance of paper, sit beside the homemade bookends I draw in my free time.
Then, I confide in my brown teddy bear about a busy week, a month filled with meticulous plans, causing my mind to feel empty and bare. I fill it up only with the familiar solo playlist and a few watercolor jars in the cozy corner of my almost-dried-up home.
I pull out the dusty canvas, covered with ten layers of dust, hoping that one day, with a stack of promises, I’ll fill those white walls with shades of red, orange, yellow, and purple. Going back and forth, the old wall also gathers a melancholy layer of dust.
Admiring the dogs and caressing the cats, yet, in the course of a long life, a typical day in the familiar city just passes by like a flowing stream of shelter and nurture. Oh, in reality, I wasn’t born in this place. I tell myself it’s home, but after all, it’s just a home for a fleeting few days, a few dozen hours of blissful happiness. Am I wasting it all?
Ending our dreamy conversation, you gift me a song and promise to return, to cook together, care for the cats, and water the flowers with your sister. But you’ll go out for dinner, breathe in the complete air of this place before returning to your city, where peace is not for sale, and no one needs to buy sorrow.
