Short Note: I am all too here

One step after another after another. It’s taking all my concentration to do basic tasks. I can only read a few lines at a time, only a few strokes of brush. Life is breaking down to the littlest moments and I am being forced to choose one moment to the next. One should not have utmost liberty or rather to have liberty is to have the right to not choose, to let habit take course, to be drawn towards future on a wave, to let currents carry you. It’s not the same me, who only paints, and let one day work itself to the next.

If the day was my Butler right now, then I would be it’s overbearing master, walking two steps behind running my fingers on the just-cleaned shelf, examining, rubbing my fingertips and demanding the day repeat itself. Then I would get ahead of the day, demanding the dishes be cleaned, like so and so, curtains be drawn but just so, demanding it leaves those two dirty cups on the side table, so I could, I could, just so I wish. And I would feel weary at the end having not lifted my fingers for one task but just to decide, to judge.

My soul would be weary, even more so, for day somehow didn’t fulfill any of my wishes, that I had to ask of the day for the simplest of tasks. And my life of a house would be would feel full, but I wouldn’t have any strength to throw the useless, not even those two dirty cups, now all fungussed.

To then not work and deciding not to work would be a task in itself. Which I am doing my best to accomplish, but it’s using up all my faculties. The musky air, revolting yet enticing, for once I can sense stillness in the rot of smell. Smell of dust resting upon layers of linen, mixing with that of sweat. All of it has sweetened, to a degree, like fermented fruit.