December 12th, 2010

caillebotte_man at his window

All the Same

Languor is like fitful sleep in a boat adrift, following the slow current of a sluggish stream. The shore's sounds will at times intrude, but always pass unmoved. Languor is not still, but moves the way a dreamer sometimes moves, approaching something sought but never reaching it.

Some days are all languor and dissatisfaction. Hours pass, the world a vague background to the slow clock's heavy hands. You wait to wake, unable to rouse yourself by will, half enjoying the lassitude, half wishing something would happen to end it.

Languor is ambiguous, like muffled voices speaking words that might be threatening or might be affectionate— but you only come to care once you've left the half-dream and find yourself in a silent place far downstream and wonder what has passed as you drifted, and know you can never return.

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