Simple Pleasure

The bacon is frying, there is no alarm, and the sun is shining through the blinds just enough to get the pink petal hue on the horizon. I dont sit around in bed, groggy, stretching my legs or hiding under the covers. I don't reach for my phone and scroll through the endless stream of content. The bacon is frying. The smell is good enough for me. I get up and make my way to the kitchen, instinctively. It is no battle. It is inertia, movement, right off the bat, I'm ready to go.

The wood floor under my feet is always smooth. I never wear shoes. It feels right to feel the Earth beneath me. There's no constant hum of cars going about their business, or the honking of the early morning commuters, only the quiet chirping of birds, the rusting of leaves, the stillness of the morning.

She's there, in her blue underwear and her oversized t-shirt, she's focused on the pan and lost in her thoughts. She looks lovely standing there, frozen in time, all mine. I love her thick-rimmed glasses. I know she's blind as a bat and thank the stars that it worked out for me that way. Her hair is wild and the locks sit on her back untamed, unkempt, just the way I know her to be.She hears my quiet footsteps and the world starts to shine because she is there and I am hers.

"Good morning" she says and the warmness inside of me amplifies by her simple smile, her adoring eyes, the genuine gaze of a woman who loves me.

"Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes. Coffee's on the counter."

The steam rises from the red barrel-shaped mug and tastes sweeter than ever knowing that she made it for me, without ever asking, without ever mentioning it. It is a simple labor of love and it is these small labors that keeps love alive, that make me realize how lucky I am.

I kiss her on the cheek and sit down at the table. There is a stack of books infront of me and they all excite me, the names of legendary writers on the spine, their mythical prowess with paper and pen alluring as ever, already the words ruminate in my mind and hypnotize me. I grow hungry for the words, the masterful craft that nourishes every fiber of my being, all on those pages - the questions of the universe and the folly of attempting to answer them.

I sigh and look out the glorious window; it is autumn. The leaves are changing but I am like a rock - stable, sturdy, confident. I glow at the burst of yellow and red. I feel sorrow for the emptying trees but rejoice in the cycle, time will bring back the lush brush, the grass will be back soon, but for now the snow is coming and the wintry winds too but I have my books and my coffee and the bacon. What else does a man need?

"I think I'll work outside today before the real cold comes" I say.

"I'll be back in a few hours. I have a few errands to run. You have the house all to yourself."

She kisses my forehead the warmness spreads downwards, all through my skin. It's the simple things.

"Have a lovely day" I say

The hammock hangs from the tree. It is heaven to be suspended, to sway back and forth, to be part of the tree, the roots going deep into the Earth, and it is her prowess that keeps the gentle rocking afloat. There is a hushed breeze, it disturbs the papers infront of me only slightly, but the cold is a reminder. The chill keeps me from complacency, it keeps me going, the momentum, and suddenly I don't feel the world around me at all. It is hypnosis.

The words come with difficulty at first, I am still in my head, still finding the perfect words, still being human, flawed, imperfect, but the more I write, the more I become less of myself. There are pauses but soon they dissapear. I am finding the flow, there is nothing else in the world anymore, I have lost control, the straining of the wrist, the constant movement of the pen, the ink struggling to keep up, there is nothing to it at all now; it is momentum, the constant movement, inertia keeps me going now, and I cannot stop it, nothing can stop it until it has run out of energy but I never let it go that far. It is vital to never empty the well but to leave a little water left to keep the drought away. I am dreaming, the medium is monochromatic but the wave that pulls me here and there, that lifts me up to lands unknown is kaleidoscopic, it is heaven to be lost in myself and the universe.

I can feel the reserves depleting, I am getting to the end of my rope, the hypnosis is starting to vanish and I am being dragged back down to Earth, the colors begin to come back and the hazy stupor does not have its hold on me.

There is little left and I decide to stop.

For a moment I have lost the fear of death, there was nothing that ever mattered more than the words that I wrote. Perhaps the words are mediocre, useless, only important to me, but it does not matter. There is a slight hint of guilt, it follows me constantly, perhaps I should do more, perhaps I should have done better, but then I know that I am human again, that I am back to my flawed self because in the hours that I was lost with the pen there was no doubt, only flow and miracles, creation. Even the shoddy craftsman looks at his work and says, "Tomorrow it will be better". I did the work. I did what I had to do and that is all a man can do.

My duty ends there with those words, now the day is free and I am its humble companion.

I look up to the branches and the falling leaves. There is no need for fantastical escapes for me, everyone has their own. Mine is simple because after all it is the simple things that make the biggest difference. A snowflake can bring the avalanche, a drop of water can bring the flood, a single breath can make all the difference, and for now I look at the falling leaves, the quiet of my home, my finished work, and keep swaying side to side and smile in the simplest pleasure of silence.