In a Perpetual Sense of Ennui
Is this what we call freedom? When it’s Wednesday morning, and you’re just hanging in the hammock in the corner of your backyard, writing in your diary, reading books like there’s no tomorrow, and drinking water from your Tupperware tumbler?
Or is it just a perpetual sense of ennui?
Some say it’s a sweet disposition: lying around looking at the tin roof, frolicking in the garden, mimicking the cry of the chickens, feeling the contentment of hanging out the week’s laundry, swaying with the clothesline in the lightness of the air.
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Or is it just a perpetual sense of ennui?
Afternoons are spent picking citrus, a chore for your wayward nieces, while you’re standing below the tree, pointing to the ripest fruit; hearing the prattling noises of hens, it’s time to feed the flocks, since sad sunsets make you cry.
Or is it just a perpetual sense of ennui?
Does this mundane pursuit of daily tasks represent freedom or ennui? I am an uncertainty — the inhibition of a frustrated writer, a loafer, a lazy, crazy cat lady, a degree holder who didn’t want a career, but has shattered dreams.
I am definitely in a perpetual sense of ennui.
