The sense of nothing

I am 33 now. That’s how old my mother was when I turned three. They say that’s the year Jesus wept. What do I have to say about boredom? Nothing. Wherever I go, there I am. When I first moved here I wrestled with the idea of boredom. Boredom or was it just me sitting in silence listening to nature instead of sitting under artificial lights surrounded by plastic plants listening to a half complete playlist moan through the speakers. Everything was always so loud. All the lights are always on. The nighttime here is so dark through the window, my brain sometimes imagines the cheshire cat appearing on the other side of the glass. The coconut trees, arms open under the moonlight 100 foot scarecrows.

My first months here, I’m sure I was unburdening myself from sterilized sensory. I used to wring my hands with worry, rocking as if I was taken over by the spirit. Sleep never came on a cloud. I held out my tongue trying to catch peace while the rain passed. My shower sounds like a singing bowl whether the water is on or off. Sometimes it’s so silent in our home that the ice cracking in my water bottle startles me. The mourning doves never stop speaking and I’m afraid if I stop hearing them that means it’s all over and I’ve died somehow but haven’t reached my next destination. I finish every book I pick up in two days while laying on my couch propped up on two pillows. My nana called to wish me a happy birthday and while she spoke, I pushed myself further into the couch, falling over into the wall. I imagined my body turning into paint. Her voice so sweet, I wished I could hug her. Today is the fifth straight day of rain. I watched my husband run barefoot through the rain, a smile plastered on his face while rain rushed to him as if his body was a river. He slid across our patio, an ice skating rink of earthworms searching for new air to breathe.

The old things have passed away.

T ❤