I’m listening to classical music and living in this moment. My hands type. No. My fingers type. No. My brain types. They all do. My brain is my body, and together all the parts of me are typing. Thinking working.
I hear. I see. I feel.
I don’t notice smelling, but I trust that if there were a noteworthy scent, my smell receptors would let my brain know.
I kind of sense the wet and shampoo of my hair. My face feels a little… something. Oh, there’s a smell. A little smell of an old...well, something. Not entirely unpleasant, though I suppose some folks might think it was. A little musty, maybe? Is that a smell? I don’t know. It smells kind of wet. How does wet smell?
I’m at peace. The music. Is in my
Me.
I’m a little sad and happy. No, not happy, but content.
Thinking about feelings, I immediately drift to sad ones. Or...no, yeah, sad ones. Ones that feel sad right now.
I pause. So does the music. It’s waiting for me. Asking me to make it.
I want to, I tell it, but there’s too much else in the world that I want to do. And even somethings that I don’t want to do and don’t have to do, but will anyways, because what if there comes a day when I want to do it, and then I can’t and I’ll wish I’d done it before.
I suppose I’m at a stopping point if I choose to be, so I will.