Leisure has changed for me. It’s not what it once was.
In leisure, I do not sit still.
I float beside my thoughts.
A violin, a gentle piano, hums somewhere—even if no one is playing it. Art leans in through my own lens and speaks softly.
What I enjoy most is the quiet stretch of time, when nothing intrudes. The past does not interrupt—it stands nearby, calm and familiar, beside the present. Memories still rise, yes, but they do so like the gentle scent of lavender.
Smell becomes a doorway. I let my mind wander without a map. Ideas drift in like fireflies, blinking on and off, unconcerned with usefulness. Stories stretch their legs. Old thoughts return wearing new hats, waving as if they never left.
I walk through quiet moments and suddenly I am lifted—by a face I loved, a family tradition that no longer exists, the beauty of art and things that once were.
I enjoy wandering without destination, letting memory and possibility bump into each other like old friends in midair.
I’d tell you more, but it’s my leisure time—I’ve got to go.

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