It seems a part of me had fallen asleep in the past couple of months. If one looked closely enough (and maybe if I let them), a subtle shifting has taken seed in my movements and in the words I have used, belying my usual warm demeanor. I myself have only begun acknowledging this recently, and it is only now that I have felt a slight... worry for this dormancy in my spirit.
Two weeks ago, a friend of mine from a company I used to work with sent me an SMS, saying one of our friends was leaving for Qatar, and that it would be great if our group got together again before she left. I never responded. They were calling me up all night, but their persistence did not move me one breath closer to responding. I turned off my mobile phone, and I slept.
A week ago I was sick, and, except for an evening walk with Elmer Sunday night, I just stayed home and read Lucifer and Claymore. It even got to the point where I felt I needed an extra day to rest, more because of the lethargy than the actual physical illness, but I felt guilty Tuesday morning so I went to work anyway.
Work has been, for the most part, unaffected by all this. Although my movements have been trimmed to the bare minimum -- making only movements needed to finish the job -- and my words have become antiseptic and economical, I still go home everyday without having to worry about it any more than I have to.
On one hand, I feel rather fine and there's nothing terribly, horribly wrong with me at all. One could even say this little pocket of mediocrity is what I need most, after 24 years of holding out on half-cooked sanity. But a small part -- almost insignificant, undetectable, like a young flute in a grand orchestra -- longs for something asleep to awaken.
But I'm not in a hurry. And, truth be told, I'd rather be asleep.
