I lived in the daily sameness of monotony years ago—rising at dawn to wait for the sunset and starting to wait at dusk for the sunrise. The dullness of waiting consumed me. I felt useless and defeated. I talked to the stubborn whiteness of the ceiling. I debated with the stoic silence of the wall. I stood up to the belittling indifference of the floor. That cycle remained unbroken until I realized one day that there was no Godot who would arrive and that I was no Samuel Beckett. I snapped out of my debilitating existentialism. I woke up to the provocations of the realities surrounding me. Life instigated me to get up, take a shower, enjoy a cheeseburger, and laugh at an old joke. The world seemed fresh and new. The neighborhood reeked of hope and the fragrance of spring. My apartment appeared bright and spacious again. I learned to breathe mindfully and survived. I decided to continue to exist.

Sadly, everything is now back—the sameness, the monotony, the long wait for the sunset, the delayed arrival of the sunrise. No tastebuds for a juicy cheeseburger, my face wanting to laugh to disfigure my sullen looks, I am mostly quiet, the same one-bedroom apartment dark, my body odor insisting to be smelled and washed.