It is Sunday, shortly after nine in the morning, and I’m writing in my bed, covered with a sky blue quilt blanket which I found a few months ago inside a suitcase in the storage room, after it was left behind in the apartment by one of the roommates or subletters. Two purple yoga blocks which I keep at all times by my bed are supporting below my elbows on both sides as I write. Also while I sleep, I love leaning my leg on top one of them.
Outside, behind the barred windows of my room, the
greenery of the trees can be seen, and their branches are moving in the wind. I
can lie down like this for hours and look at the leaves fluttering above the
branches – their sight calms my soul, and sometimes I fall back asleep. How
easy it is to forget and ignore the things which are so wonderful, like the
swaying of the quivering leaves above the branches of the trees as they are
nodding in the wind.
It seems like writing doesn’t happen now by itself. It
requires great mental strength, and because of my mental fatigue I find it more
difficult to write. Daily worries create mental fatigue in which the danger of
dissipation of inspiration lies. Yesterday after I came back home in the
evening I wanted to sit and write, but did not have the energy to do so. I lied in my bed, under the light-blue blanket, and watched the leaves in my window
which were lit by the street lamp posted outside above the pavement. It felt
good and was the only thing I wanted – to lie down by myself in peace and quite
and look at them while they are thatching the chambers of my soul.