Staring at nothing, she embraced the afternoon sunlight, warming through the opaque drapes.
She had nothing to do today, a cold having cancelled all plans.
Her body lounged under the covers, mind wandering the empty time the cold created.
She was always in a hurry lately, even when knowing there was reason why.
What could she do to fill the time today? The time to cook dinner was still some ways away.
She should do something, maybe from one of the To Do lists, but which one?
Her heart meandered through her sifting corridors, looking for a project to commit some time.
It was in that moment I realized all I was doing was waiting to die.
She dutifully filled each grain with something, giving them weight and supposed meaning, as they lined down orderly through the molded glass.
I had thought she was obtaining, constantly rushing, planning, efficiently maximizing the use of each time.
But as I lay there, my day bereft of pre-constructed allotments of work, friends, self and other, I noticed my heart doesn’t care for time.
Its treasures are passion, epics, standing victorious on top of seemingly unreachable heights.
To not fill, but strive.