It’s not what you think.
It’s not family, love or hope.
It’s not vivid nature, nor personal exuberance.
It’s not the skies flying rapidly by, changing colour with each hour, month, season.
It’s not the sun, revolving around the earth.
It’s not the moon controlling the tides.
It’s not growth, not the blossoming of petals after stark, winter dormancy.
It’s not appreciation of the world in all its forms.
It’s not peace.
Not world connectivity, cultures drawn together, happiness spread.
It’s beans on toast when the skies are grey and the world is cold. It’s steaming beans trickling over warm toast with butter melted on top, and a fried egg, sunny side up, on the corner of the plate. Some mushrooms pile up in another corner. Maybe a little bit of feta too. It’s a mug of delicious hot earl grey with a teaspoon of sugar and a glug of milk, because it’s the weekend and I am indulging.It’s fluffy socks, crossed under the table, as the delicious breakfast is downed slowly, every bite savoured, all washed down with the sweet, flavourful tea. It’s a day stretched out, wonderfully empty, with no assignments or chores looming ahead. A pile of exciting books by a freshly made bed, crisp sheets, a soft dressing gown. A pretty, glowing lamp in the corner of the living room after a relaxing walk in the cold evening, cheeks red, nose cold. It’s falling asleep to the gentle patter of rain on the window panes, all relaxed and ready for the hectic week ahead.
It’s the little things.
N.B. I can’t wait to move into my own place again so I can experience said precious thing. Living with so many people is starting to take a toll on my sanity.