Sitting here wondering about torpor at midday, pausing for no apparent reason amid translating work that I like.
I am turned to thoughts of what to say. Thoughts of having to say something.
Cars come and go outside. The cloud cover thins. Cat upset when moved. Voices pass in the street.
I am stillness passing in silence.
Just rest and cease, Keizan Zenji, an old Zen master, said centuries ago. Be cooled, pass numberless years as this moment. Be cold ashes, a withered tree, an incense burner in an abandoned temple, a piece of unstained silk.