A Lazy Occupation of my Time

While I await dispute, I seem to be quite fond of the description as a lazy occupation of my time. It’s all quiet and somehow sad. The television seems to be having all the conversation at the time and, to tell you the truth, I’m glad it is because I’m the only one in the room and I shouldn’t be in a conversation if alone. I like my disorganized organization: books all scattered on the table with Dickens nearest, Wells and Wharton to the farthest side, my hair brush is close where I can grab it just in case one of my hairs fly off toward the wrong direction, of course I also have my trusty, empty glass of water and my deodorant from my previous encounter with odor; on the floor I can see my heartless, miserable work grappled in pieces of worthless paper, shoes over worn including my infamous boots (I shall be buried in them) and a bag of the remainder of my trip to Texas concealing gifts still yet to be needed by my affection; the photographs are nearby: there’s Veronica, and Veronica again, and again, then there’s my Papu and my grandmother Luz Marina, a picture of my baptism, Titi Cuchi, my parents’ wedding, and my parents kissing; underneath all that (apart from the collection of lifeless magazines never to be used again they being so old) are lovely paintings my father created when in doubt of his creativity and his time, and, of course, there is the time consuming rotation of pens, most of them being out of ink, others I ignore, and the amounts of paper I consume in exaggerated form. Oh, it seems it has started to rain, or maybe it was always raining but I was too consumed by my inside atmosphere and not my outside one, or maybe the rain is just a figment of my imagination telling me that it’s fine to cry because the heavens can cry without shame, as I have never been able to do so. I forgot to mention all the cables and wires, some on the floor connecting the television and allowing me to observe Diane Lane in the role of Frances Mayes. And here I am, on the leather couch, pressing against lonesome pillows. The two lonesome pillows are always there, and so am I. There is also the never revolving but still revolve-able chair in which no one currently sits on. There is a door and I can always walk out of it if I ever want to, but I get too scared. I’m scared that I’ll be even more lonesome outside than I am in. I’m also scared that I’ll never go out of this my beloved sanctuary. Yes, there is a door, but I’ll never walk out of it.