Sitting still

There comes to me a guilt with sitting still.

With inactivity.

Although I have gotten quite good at it over this past year, this sitting still—abandoning reading for iPad skimming, writing for Television. Dust accumulates in the non-traveled alleys on the hardwood floor as I avoid cleaning chores. Photos go untagged and tales untold.

I do not still well and so it is an uneasy idleness. Yet the idleness has begun to creep over my life like kudzu. But always there too are nagging whispers from the guilt which sits beside me whenever I sit still.

Occasionally it pokes me.

There are, after all, Things To Do.

But today in this place—in these sunbeams and shades—the only whispers are from the warm waterfall feeding the mid-century-modern pool.

I am sitting still. I am quiet. I am content. I am reading ink on paper.

Tomorrow is another country.

And the Things To Do are in exile.