When life is still, some mindfulness sets in.
But well, it is a feeling, and it is fleeting. Like that abracadabra you do to yourself when work gets in the way of your creative writing or what passes for one. You remember, of course, your small and big failure, like the two novels you are working on for the last two years or so, with only a number of chapters you have written for each.
One day, on Thursday, you had that faculty ritual of 'tell-all-and-share-all' thing and you were forced to look into your heart and ask that in/famous question: What will I tell? When one is confronted with the possibility that you are speaking before your colleagues, you can only have the jitters, customary as they always are, knowing you are dealing with a brilliant lot and that you cannot fake it if you do not have it. You can only pray in cases like this.
To be continued...