Afternoons

I don’t like afternoons in my house.

The light hits different. Jarringly bright, it pierces through all my curtains. The air is hazy, the spaces awash in a dirty ochre. A vague smell of some floating dust lingers in the air.

The apartment and the world outside feels heavy and still, weighed down by a dull silence, pierced by the ocassional screech of a school boy who begs to play in the hot sun.

There is nothing to do. In this haze, you cannot read, you cannot work, you cannot rest. You must just wait. For the sun to hobble by and slide down, for the light to become a jar of gold you want to put in a mason jar, for the jolly kids to come out to play, for a breeze to ebb and flow, for the birds to fly back home. It shall come, but you must wait.