Reflecting on Inner Peace Through Tea and Books

Lately, I’ve been extremely tired, sleeping nearly ten hours. In my dreams, I seem to have encountered something ominous or perplexing, but my consciousness remains half-asleep and half-awake. Upon waking up, I pulled back the blinds, and sunlight streamed in through the window; everything seemed to fade away as if by magic. Yet here I am, still in this room, experiencing a toothache and some lingering discomfort in my abdomen. However, this blinding light from the sun has made me ignore these minor inconveniences. It seems that my body has fallen into deep sleep, while my soul longs to venture forth to find its way.

In an almost empty yet somehow foreboding atmosphere, I lay on my bed for a prolonged period; my scattered thoughts drift about, only to realize that I remain in this room. Perhaps at some point I do fall asleep again. Given my weary mind and body, I lack the enthusiasm to engage in any activities; all I can experience is vivid, otherworldly imagery accompanied by a meager slumber. It seems that sleep has sprouted from my pillow.

Just after brewing a cup of green tea, my body began to feel slightly cleaner. In this tranquil room, I sat at an armchair, listening to the chirping of birds outside; the warmth of the bedspread seemed to hum with the vibrations of sunlight. Within me, there arose a sudden surge of vivid imaginations and pleasant anticipations, yet these were quickly submerged by a sense of despairanalogous to my recurrent anxiety. Recognizing that this inner turmoil mirrors my instinctive worry about never having listened to my heart’s voice. External stimuli and inner drives alike have fragmented into countless fragments, each causing me pain. In my automatic attempt to mend these wounds, I actually caused more harm upon myself. Originally, I had intended to go for a walk today since the weather was so pleasant; however, sitting comfortably in this warm room instead, an inexplicable stillness enveloped me. Time indeed marches forward, yet it does not hold me captive. Thinking about how fortunate I am, I opened Pushkin’s " Eugene Onegin" and began to read.

Amongst the chaos of this busy life, I have managed to occasionally recall fragments of my own existencea treasure I hold most dear in this ever-changing world.