An empty room, a quiet house, an understanding that there is nothing to be done today, or tomorrow: that nothing can stretch out over as many days and weeks as I want.
The loveliness of being home, the joy of not having to be anywhere else. This is what freedom feels like.
There is no loneliness, only solitude. No knock at the door or grasping, grabbing world coming up in the street. The clock ticks, the hands turn, the light moves across the mirror.
Best would be a day of rain, gentle rain that takes all day to finish falling. The outside sheened through the glass and if I look close, the trees are blurred within it. The window, open enough to hear the rain without letting it in and the brief patters as the drops blow against the sill.
This is the sort of day that I want to last forever, the kind of peace I think of when I sit in traffic jams or wait for a student to do their work. Surrounded by the lives of others I yearn for my own, as if it also belonged to someone else.
We all know, in the real world, there is a price to pay for staying in, not meeting the world, not being the person who can do that. But in those quiet times when the perfect life is momentarily here, homesickness washes over me for the quiet room, the rain, the soft light of the quiet day.