On a day of rest, the hours change speed at random
In a year of rest, the days do much the same
Some fly past, airliners full of passengers
Others crawl by, demanding the full attention of boredom
It's not so different from going back to bed at 8:30am
The body struggles a little, then goes limp
And wakes up grateful that it relented
A perfect day must be watched carefully
For the bucket is filled with less than perfect days
Harder to identify in the freedom of abundance
Even when easier to enjoy
Is there purpose in rest? Utility?
It depends on how you ask
And on who you ask
It could be a punctuation mark
Or a spider web
Are you the spider?
Or the flies?
Or perhaps the web?
Resting is a storyteller's game
Best played by those with a flexible imagination
Here we are: sitting atop this spinning rock
Moving things around
Or trying to keep them where they are
Making and breaking commitments to gravity or thermodynamics
We can't all be physicists
But inertia can be productive
Or lame
Kinetic
Or a game
Play on: in motion or stasis
Roman Ryan 