The view from my window
I shut my phone off last night, and began to write a list of things to do today. I don’t often shut my phone completely off, I usually set it to vibrate and put it in a quite spot, and either ignore or completely miss the low level buzz that tells me that the outside world is calling. Last night I shut it off completely because I’m trying to find ways to not constantly do, and sitting in my apartment, with it’s view of the Manhattan Bridge, in a room lit by candles and a half satin/half faux fur comforter is part of this process.
I never realized how difficult it is to relax. Not for all people, but for someone like me, whose head is screwed on too tightly, whose brain works in overdrive on a regular day, it’s hard to say, Okay, you deserve a break today, and not in that golden arches sort of way.
I was told to do yoga or to meditate, and while in a classroom or instructional setting these things are much easier for me, sitting on a cold tile floor in the middle of Project 99 hasn’t helped me find inner peace. Excuses, excuses. Although the bridge really does help, especially when a train rattles on through it. It’s the closest thing I have to TV, or to Internet for that matter. The only electronical instrument I have is my computer, which leads to my music, and still, even now, I don’t have any really relaxing music on the iPod.
I sit in the darkness and rethink the value of lists, something I recall being taught over the summer in Prague. People that need to be called, things that need checking up on, research on how to legally get the Internet in my not so legal sublet. These are the lists I begin to draw up.
And still something feel like it’s missing, and I can’t complelety understand what that is. I have everything I need right now, except that damn home Internet, and still I feel as if I have less than that. Which is a sad feeling really, because it makes me begin to imagine that I will never be fully satisfied. That no matter what, there will always be more, and that no matter how much I have, it will never feel like enough.
Or will it? Maybe I should write up a list about this. Or meditate on that cold tile floor. Maybe the answers will come to me, and maybe they won’t. If I think of nothing, is that all I’ll have?