I find there’s no better feeling in the world than sitting at home in a comfortable chair. You might have a cup of tea, or a good book as company. Or you might just sit there and take it all in.
The most satisfied I ever felt was on one Sunday afternoon in our apartment in Madrid. The other flatmates were away for the weekend, and I had this magnificent armchair. Its arm was a bit broken, the years had faded it’s fabric with sunlight, dirt and dust.
It was just like the apartment, basking in the faded glory of yesteryear. I stared at the creaky floorboards then at the walls with our homemade art. There was one that my flatmate had painted of a pinata. And there was another montage I’d made from an old lady’s letters that had been dumped on the street.
We adorned the rest of the walls with empty frames of various sizes.
That moment was simply perfect.
My phone and laptop were off and in the other room. Nobody wanted anything from me. And for once, I wanted nothing from the world.
I was happy just to sit.