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Titles usually after ending

I am afraid that one day I would wake up having forgotten about who I am right now. On this very day, the 16th of November, this memory - so small, so... seemingly insignificant...

I sit here on the edge of my chair, the sun calling out for attention behind the pensive clouds. Whatever he can get through spreads itself across my table.
I hear the whir of this engine, this device that keeps me occupied. My fingers, they dance and scream in this silence.

Ever so often I hear the sound of cars and bikes race down the street from across my house. These sounds they, leave me as soon as they reach.
I hear the tick-tock of the clock to my left, never ceasing until it does.
I feel the sweat as it builds on my back, and numbness of my feet due to the crossing of my legs.

And in this moment, I feel... completely different.
I feel the quiet of the moment, until it is broken.
But it always comes back.

The birds caw, but these sounds they drown in the oceans of my thoughts...
My mind empty...

I close my eyes, and I remember what someone told me about meditating.
One deep breath followed by another,
sit upright, focus only on the air that enters and exits your lungs.





I uncross my legs and look at the time.
Hemingway's 'Farewell to Arms' sits slightly askew,
untouched.

Then the day begins.

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