A strange feeling hit me earlier this week. I stopped after the usual long day, and did nothing. I felt close to bored, but it wasn't as extreme, more akin to just being settled, as if the mind had finally sunk down, among the broken currents of routine and restlessness. I felt no urge to do anything, to enjoy my time, to value it. The content and purpose of leisure fell away. I sat in the garden and watched a multitude of bats swoop low.
Perhaps it was from tiredness. Perhaps it was from holding off alcohol for a day. Don't know, but I know I've been so busy, had so many things on the go. It was pleasant to know all of that was just tasks and distractions, that the world is something we choose to do, even while it always feels like something we must do.
It was pleasant to do nothing, and not feel guilty about it.