The birds are singing without me

The air was crisp, the sky blue, and all I wanted to do was go back to bed. The pain above my eyes, the dull ache in my forehead, was a sign I was working too hard. Again. The wet vent in the corner of the room was waiting to breed mould, dew drops clung to the inside of the window, all showing up like court documents. Evidence the house couldn’t breathe. Neither could I.

The crushing routine that didn’t allow rest was back.​

It crept in one early morning when I woke at three, to remind myself, I could be doing more. It snuck a seat at the table when I worked so late there wasn’t enough time to walk around the block after dinner. It snuggled up next to me on the couch when Sunday became a good time to get a little bit more done instead of talking to the birds.​

As the nearby houses stand like grey silhouettes, I notice the sun taking its time. The birds are singing without me. I watch as they fly in the same circle, looping back and forth as if willing me to come. I don’t. After the sixth round, they fly on.

Nature keeps going, and so should I.

But not in this way. Not in this robotic output I called life. Today was for doing nothing. Today was for nourishing. Well...putting myself back together at least.

So I pull the duvet up to my chin and close my eyes.