Some days are meant for sitting in a chair in a dark room and watching the snow fall silently outside, staring out the window sipping coffee, maybe smoking a cigarette if the mood strikes you. Listen how the silence fills your head and you don’t really think about anything, just stare, and every snowflake is in its place. It’s like a meditative state brought about by an external consciousness.
Maybe instead you find yourself in a brightly lit room staring at a computer screen, the earth spinning madly around its axis, carrying you through one day to another, but you can’t really tell them apart. You’re tired and you fancy that you would like to be that other person, sitting at home, staring out the window.
And you start to think about it – why not? you might say. I’ve got some money saved up. All I’m going to do is die with it. What good is it going to do for me? And then you remember you’re not as Thoreau as you’d like, and that you’ve been sorely disabused by your notions of la boheme in the past. And the thought makes you sad.
But your soul still sits, staring through the window. And you turn back to answer email.