It could be a form of protest

I don't usually get sick. And I don't enjoy it as much when I do. Anymore. Now it just feels like a distraction. A disturbance in a sort of movement forward.

In college, and before, I remember just sitting for hours thinking. Considering different possibilities. Different stories.

In the Union building at the U, on the second floor, by the ballroom. I would take a chair. Slide it to face the window and watch people. (It was, of course, better on the first few days of Spring. When people, usually shut-ins, are excited enough that it isn't Winter any longer, walk around. Meet their friends for lunch on the grass. Sit at the hard wooden tables and read a newspaper or a book.) And I would imagine what sorts of people these were. Based on their clothes. Their hair styles. Their actions. Their schedules. Their everything.

You may be expecting me to say that I miss this. That I don't do it anymore. But that isn't true. I doubt it ever could be.

I don't have anything to say about it. It's just a thought. And it's the same feeling I'd get looking out the window.