An Introvert’s Sunday Reverie

“…lingering in between the sheets just a while longer, drinking in that sweet warmth, the last remains of starry dreams still clinging to your lashes.”

Art by : Yaoyao Ma Van As

I don’t want to be famous.

Although I think everyone —at some point in their lives at least— has wanted to be, I don’t think I want to, now. A while back, I decided that I sank perfectly well into anonymity. That no amount of fame or glamour could ever bring me as much joy and peace as the kind of Sunday I’ve had today.

Waking up a little later than usual, and lingering in between the sheets just a while longer, drinking in that sweet warmth, the last remains of starry dreams still clinging to your lashes. Then waking up not out of obligation: not because of the time it is or the things that need to be done that day, but simply because you are ready.

And then you walk around the house idly for a while, chuckling as you take in the look of your bedhead, and smiling because it doesn’t matter, because you like it, somehow: that tangled wilderness that bears proof of all the past night’s half-forgotten dreams.

And then humming, doing weird dances while nobody’s looking, while nobody knows. Right there, in the quiet warmth of a house no one would think twice about. Still, you go about in a sleep-induced haze, zoning out as you prepare breakfast, taking 10 minutes to pour some milk and cereal and not knowing where all that time went, not caring about it. Because it’s not lost time. It does not feel like a waste. It is part of taking care of yourself. Besides, you always manage to emerge from these inattentive spells with a song on your breath or an old memory replaying in your mind.

And then you watch something nice, or you draw. You write, you read, you paint, you make music.

Quietly, introvertedly.

You try one of those homemade face masks, and somewhere in the middle of looking for refined sugar, realise that there is nothing more important than this, in this very moment. You find that amidst all the layers of self-doubt and self-hate that you wear all week long, you actually like yourself. You’re pretty fun to be with, really.

And then as the day passes and afternoon comes, you take a nap, because you can. You stare at the ceiling, thinking up improbable scenarios and laughing quietly. You think about odd things, about all the other things that must be happening around the world at that exact same time. You think about your friend in Italy and the other who’s…well you’re not exactly sure where. And there’s no envy there either, just wonder.

Either way, there’s not much that could move you at that point. There’s not much that could take away that sweet, quiet anonymity.

So no, no fame for me. No, thank you.

I just want to be that quiet neighbour who sings really loud sometimes, and who spends her afternoons surrounded by overgrown plants on her balcony, watching as distant airplanes weave through the clouds, and drinking peach iced tea while wondering when it would be a good time to fly a kite again.