I sometimes dream about a standstill. To say “alone” is making the desire too dependent on solitude. I am alone, but the quiet isn’t what fills me. Instead it’s the lack of doing. The lack of need.
The chores aren’t specific—the things that would not need doing, and maybe it’s not that they’re absent at all, but simply that I cannot think of them. Nothing occurs to me to be “done.”
Usually I am in the sunshine, white sheets around me, a blue sky and clean sky light over head. There is no dirt, nothing itches. No sounds stand out and annoy me. There is no cat, no ticking clock or dripping water. No phone I could call from. No bills I should pay. There are no deadlines, no due dates, cut-offs or call backs. No dishes no timers or left overs to rot in the fridge, clothes to mildew in the washer, no vegetables to go unpicked and drop from the vines in the garden. No flowers I’ve cut are going putrid, from beautiful to filthy, in their cut glass vases and no mail is accumulating in the box. I’m not wearing clothes, and there is no pile to wash, no stains that concern me, no hems that are fraying. My mother doesn’t need me—not to tell me a story or give me updates. My father isn’t sad or worried or dying and it doesn’t hurt to know I’m not needed. It’s like floating in water of the perfect temperature. Floating, just barely, with no sense of danger.