Post-its of Being

Grey, silent, like the sky outside, before the first chirp of the first bird.

Inert in bed, I looked at my blank mind.

It’s not normally like this, I thought with no disquiet, and watched.

A little orange tile slid in from the left. It had some scribbles, but I learned the content without reading it - Take Vikky for his photo.

Still mostly grey. I watched, quiet, curious.

A small patch of turquoise formed - Zoom call at eleven a.m.

A question in green - Are you up to cycling up the hillside to Kapil’s shop?

I’d put off talking to the casting agent till ten a.m. The mason would arrive after breakfast.

But first, I need to get out of bed and make coffee.

The grey was gone. And the quiet.

The mystery of self replaced by an untidy collection of chores, a patchwork of little Post-its, papering over the mystery of an empty day, of a self that could, for a brief moment before dawn, be imagined afresh.

I washed my face in the bathroom sink, and the little munia pecked at the window with its beak. It’s been doing that every morning, Premi said from bed. Isn’t it cute?

I wonder, does it have intention, like we do, or are supposed to? It certainly has curiosity, more than most of us do - peeking in our window to see what lies within.

We believe we have free will, can find purpose. At the deepest level, I think we do, but most of our lives, we surrender it to a series of chores that fill our days. That keep us away from the dread of nothing. Nothing to do, nothing to see.

Or worse - looking into the mirror, and being forced to see our own selves, peering into our own eyes, with no labels to obscure our beings, no chores to distract us from the essential task of contemplating silence, that little square of dark grey nothing in the silence of the morning.