I don’t really have a passion for anything these times. Days pass in a blur, punctuated by brief periods of fleeting happiness occurring only on the weekends.
I write this on a calafia, feeling the cool wind move my hair across my closed eyes. When I open them everything has a bluish tint to it and hair strands untangle themselves from eyelashes. Yet I don’t feel depressed.
It probably has to do with a thoroughly unsatisfying end to a good weekend; or the fact I didn’t get my morning coffee.