Content

I think, for now, I can be content just sitting on the couch with some good munchies and a solid supply of decent sitcoms.

It’s strange – at least, I find it strange – that I can be so tired of life sometimes. I can wake up with absolutely no outlook on anything, not wishing or wanting to get up out of bed but knowing I should. I’ll make it to lunchtime before my eyelids feel thick and heavy, and I want to just bury my face in my blankets and sleep the heaviness away.

Then, other times, I’d miss another voice, another face so much that I’d pick up the phone to annoy someone, or look through my pictures just to see those loved faces. I’d dredge up memories of laughter just to take the buzzing blue feeling away.

Content. I love doing things with people. I love the feeling of accomplishment when I’ve done things with people, like going shopping and finding something that either I or they wanted, or having watched a movie and discuss it, or go bowling and, win or lose, witnessed a funny moment I could relive later. But I love even more quiet conversations, heads huddled together, whispering secrets that I’d never say louder, giggling at things that mean nothing.

Like the bankside bench, like the nap.

De Fluffe, Out.