The air is soft this morning. Cool yet comforting, light without being bright. Soft: gentle like a mother’s love. It does not possess its usual gravity, does not weigh down on me so hard as I am used to, and this somehow makes it harder to keep my eyes open – eyelids drifting up and down without me being able to control them. Weightless.
There is a lot of drifting this morning: consciousness drifting in and out; voices right beside me heard but not listened to; thoughts like blown bubbles popping. Delicate bubble thoughts: the moment I touch them they disappear.
People drift in and out too. I came in here because it was quiet: Y sleeping, me writing, clock ticking, spider weaving – nothing else to interrupt these drifting thoughts. Then within minutes, everybody in here talking, playing, yelling, laughing. A pretty scene perhaps, if not entirely conducive to writing.
Time is a sand dune, drifting.