Drift

 8:45 AM

I've been awake for an hour now. My mother hasn't woken me up—no one does. I live alone.

The first thought that crossed my mind as sleep left me was: What should I eat today? Though I’m fortunate enough not to have to cook for myself, the task of deciding what should be cooked in my household always bothers me. After standing in front of the refrigerator for a while, I finally settle on a menu.

It's a bright Sunday morning. I scroll through my feed, past glimpses of people’s lives—some I know, some I don’t. It exhausts me. It hasn’t been long, but already, witnessing these carefully curated moments drains me. A strange mix of relative deprivation and guilty privilege washes over me, so I stop scrolling.

I have a long list of tasks for today—sorting laundry, washing my hair, making good use of the extra hours a holiday offers, prepping for the week ahead. The sheer thought of doing so much makes me want to do nothing. So, I do nothing.

Doing nothing is my favorite thing to do. I only wish I could list it as a hobby instead of settling for the usual, more acceptable ones—reading and writing.

8:55 AM

The sound of a tractor has been the background music to my thoughts since I woke up. There must be some construction nearby. The noise stops abruptly at times, and just when I start adjusting to the silence, it starts again. Right now, there’s silence.

I should get out of bed, step into the sunlight, start my day. Yet, with every passing minute, I feel like I’m falling behind. Behind whom? I don’t know.

I think I should write more often. Maybe if I did, I wouldn’t feel so lost in my own thoughts.

The tractor’s noise is back. The day is waiting. I should get going now.