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how restless and bored are we?

I looked out the window, saw a plethora of multi-colored roofs, inhaled the cold air from the airconditioning and relished the thought of staying in.

I held my phone, no visible blinking red light this time.

I scanned the stack of books lying on the floor, beside my wall painted with a mural of the sunset reflected by the sea, encircled with a cursive verse from Rimbaud, “eternity is the sun mingling with the sea”. Beauvoir, Kundera, Rilke, Palahniuk, and more. People I do not remember, I read them all.

I paced towards the bathroom, stared at the various posters hung on the closet doors, traced the brush strokes of corals and leaves and seeweeds smeared on the walls. I sat on the ceramic throne, folded my legs and lighted up a stick. Each drag of smoke was equivalent to a sigh— a surrender.

A surrender for that moment of forced introspection, when the room was quieter than my thoughts. I had no choice but to entertain every passing thing, serve tea for self-inflicted demons. Tell them, “hey, I could use some company.”