Morning's here. Either that, or my dream is suddenly a lot brighter and noisier. I half-open an eye and glance at my phone.
7 a.m. So it is morning.
I had better get out of bed, hadn't I? Even if it is wonderfully warm and cosy and snug and...no, really, I must. There's work to do. That application I began last week - should I finish it before I begin on the second chapter of my dissertation? Actually, given that I'm fresh and rested right now, getting some serious studying done is a very good idea. But I can't possibly do that unless I clear my table...and if I'm going to put away all the loose A4 sheets and reference books, hadn't I better finish that second chapter first...?
...Or I could burrow back under the quilt, turn over so I'm facing the sunlight filtering in through the blinds, and go back to sleep for another hour.
No contest, I think with a sleepy, dopey grin. It’s a rare privilege…let’s take it this one time.
Sometimes, the fact that we can choose to take it easy means a lot more than everything else put together.
It catches my eye as I'm sprinting down Bungalow Road to the department, late for yet another class. A pair of woolly, fuzzy, lime green-and-white socks. It's sticking out of a basket of gloves and socks and caps, guarded by a heavily-mufflered man holding a steaming glass of chai. Should I? Shouldn't I? Don't be silly, Pragmatism hisses in my ear. Aren't you late for class already? And lime green socks? Seriously, now? Grow up!
Torn between wanting to take a closer look and making it in time for attendance, I finally give in to temptation and stop by the basket. Pragmatism throws her hands up in disgust and walks into her room, slamming the door behind her. Ten minutes later, I am in proud possession of the fuzzy green and white socks. My feet are warm as toast, and I'm grinning for no apparent reason. Sometimes, I look away from whatever it is I am doing and glance at my socks and smile.
Go ahead. Do the goofy, unwarranted thing once in a while, just because you want to. Happiness sometimes comes in the strangest, most unconventional packages. Like a smile from a toddler on the street. Like chocolate for dessert. Or like lime green woollen socks.
She hasn't been herself for more than a week now...not since they had that huge fight. A minor disagreement that blew out of proportion because neither was willing to let it go. She thinks no-one knows. And he hates to think they won't talk to each other again - she isn't just the love of his life; she is also his best friend. It is killing him, but he won't say a word, and he thinks he'll get away with the charade...but he doesn't. Everybody in the gang notices. Everyone tries to convince each to talk to the other, and it is no good because each of them believes that the other doesn't care, that there is no chance of forgiveness.
7 a.m. So it is morning.
I had better get out of bed, hadn't I? Even if it is wonderfully warm and cosy and snug and...no, really, I must. There's work to do. That application I began last week - should I finish it before I begin on the second chapter of my dissertation? Actually, given that I'm fresh and rested right now, getting some serious studying done is a very good idea. But I can't possibly do that unless I clear my table...and if I'm going to put away all the loose A4 sheets and reference books, hadn't I better finish that second chapter first...?
...Or I could burrow back under the quilt, turn over so I'm facing the sunlight filtering in through the blinds, and go back to sleep for another hour.
No contest, I think with a sleepy, dopey grin. It’s a rare privilege…let’s take it this one time.
Sometimes, the fact that we can choose to take it easy means a lot more than everything else put together.
It catches my eye as I'm sprinting down Bungalow Road to the department, late for yet another class. A pair of woolly, fuzzy, lime green-and-white socks. It's sticking out of a basket of gloves and socks and caps, guarded by a heavily-mufflered man holding a steaming glass of chai. Should I? Shouldn't I? Don't be silly, Pragmatism hisses in my ear. Aren't you late for class already? And lime green socks? Seriously, now? Grow up!
Torn between wanting to take a closer look and making it in time for attendance, I finally give in to temptation and stop by the basket. Pragmatism throws her hands up in disgust and walks into her room, slamming the door behind her. Ten minutes later, I am in proud possession of the fuzzy green and white socks. My feet are warm as toast, and I'm grinning for no apparent reason. Sometimes, I look away from whatever it is I am doing and glance at my socks and smile.
Go ahead. Do the goofy, unwarranted thing once in a while, just because you want to. Happiness sometimes comes in the strangest, most unconventional packages. Like a smile from a toddler on the street. Like chocolate for dessert. Or like lime green woollen socks.
She hasn't been herself for more than a week now...not since they had that huge fight. A minor disagreement that blew out of proportion because neither was willing to let it go. She thinks no-one knows. And he hates to think they won't talk to each other again - she isn't just the love of his life; she is also his best friend. It is killing him, but he won't say a word, and he thinks he'll get away with the charade...but he doesn't. Everybody in the gang notices. Everyone tries to convince each to talk to the other, and it is no good because each of them believes that the other doesn't care, that there is no chance of forgiveness.
One morning, several miserable days later, they bump into each other in the common room, where all of us are studying for a test. An uncomfortable silence fills the place, then he bravely steps forward and says, "I'm sorry." That simple. "I'm sorry, too", she responds. And, just like that, all the bitterness melts away.
Don't hesitate. Go on, say it. The attempt to make up may fail. On the other hand, it may not. But if you don't say it, there'll definitely be failure - of more than one sort.
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