Boredom

In the morning, he made instant coffee and a simple breakfast; he filled a basin in the sink and did a spot of hand washing (putting it quickly out on the line to dry). He rode his bike to the library when it opened to return, renew, and read the paper; he bought a breakfast burrito for the guy who kept pitching his tent at the corner of the parking lot (no matter how many times they ran him off). He cleaned a bit when he got home, and then read until a nap was unavoidable. He made a one pan supper and sat outside in the quiet (until the bugs got too bad). He watched a movie, checked his email, got his yoga stretches in, and readied for bed. Whenever anyone asked him what he'd been doing lately, he'd say, "Mastering the art of the boring day" and they'd laugh and laugh (but it was true). He never shared that their striving and conniving and left him feeling depleted somehow; he didn't mind having fewer people, places, and things to complain about. He marveled at their adventures, but was grateful to have firmly rooted himself in a peaceful bottom line; the breakthrough storms were bearable and the breakthrough joys were breathtaking. He had never herded well, and that was growing more and more okay; loners were, come to find out, the ones who'd pushed themselves beyond the crush and chaos to find all of the contentment that had been abandoned out there.