This is the casual containment.

I live in the quietest spot of this state and this city. It’s here, in a chair with me in mind, with my feet up and crossed, that I’m able to invite my thoughts out to be laze along with me, three at a time, at the speed of molasses. And there’s the overhead fan keeping time. And there’s the quiet roar of the air conditioner dedicated to keeping this air at 76 and not a degree more or less. And, if you really hone in with your ears, there are birds not far off, so contentedly speaking all across the sky and in the backyard trees and power lines; we hear their conversation as singing and are not faulted for it. But, all of that aside, with this stage set, it’s best to say that: this is where thoughts are most able to reside. This is not a place to dwell on the very passé emotions of loneliness and, say, broken hearts. It’s much better roaming territory for what ifs and fingers that can talk and so many ideas conjured. This is a Sunday, where I might trade this sunshine for clouds and rain, and it shall continue much like this, for as many hours as I can string in a long row. To say that this is not accomplishing much is to totally misunderstand this rest, this wandered life, this bubbled up enjoyment that lives just beneath the skin.

This is the casual containment of so very, very much.