Days turn to nights and a new one dawns. As clichéd as this reads such is The Sabbatical.
Monotony can be safe. There is a hypnotic rhythm to such a monotonous existence. It is a balm to the broken soul.
Life is simple.
There is a sense of timelessness. Yet there is an acute awareness of every passing second as sounds, sights and smells embed a new memory into your consciousness.
I know when I wake up my li’l canary will sing to me and with it usher a glorious new day of sunshine and warm light.
I know when I turn around I shall hear the rhythmic snores of a trooper ever ready to go to battle for me, yet be the shelter to protect me from all that ails the world outside.
I know I shall see a blanket of fog outside my window hiding the first rays of the sun, but giving a clarity to the chirping of the Coucals and the Peacocks that I wouldn’t get to hear otherwise.
I’m addicted to the fragrance of the fog, the chill in the air, the silence broken only by the Coucals’call.
I’m addicted to the fragrance of freshly brewed coffee.
I’m addicted to living in the present, the here and the now with no ties to the past or exploratory bonds to the future.
Such is the existence I have chosen for The Sabbatical where Day 145 could have been Day 95.