Real life is a compilation of those lingering silences. The gaps in conversation when no one knows what to say, when the sound waves consist of vocalizations for the sake of noise ‘til thought comes.
It’s when people leave the room and you hear the creaks and the ceaseless buffeting of the elements and you are let alone to your thoughts, or lack of thought. It’s more than that even, it’s those points in time when you feel vacant, looking at the patterns of ceiling paint. Why is it that the ceiling always has a texture and the walls don’t?
Real life consists of those moments of perfect anti-productivity. The moments when entropy gets the better of you and you lay back on the couch and let your muscles degrade for a second, and your eyes float, and you listen to your pulsating organs, the mass of flesh beneath your skin that writhes and never sleeps.
They really are apart aren’t they? Mind and body. Each one perfectly unconscious of the other yet unified in that ethereal way. Reality is the meeting point, the place where soul meets body as they say. Those unproductive moments are reminders of that separation between higher thinking and the constant slog of your heart, and the relentless intake and outtake of breath. Our brains have that luxury of kicking back for some reason. I worry that someday my heart will get introspective and forget what it’s doing.