Sun-streaked

Moments like this are few and far between.

I'm writing this from my apartment's sunroom. It's early on a Sunday evening, and light streaks through the tree branches outside and illuminates the hardwood floors and my bare legs. I've propped my feet onto the sea green ottoman, as I'm resting after my first (read: embarrassingly short) outdoor run of the season. The endorphins were great during that one brief spurt, but now I'm feeling tired and, resultingly, all the more determined to get back into the running routine I abandoned before. There will be a lot of running this spring and summer.

The porch windows are open, with a cool breeze lightly stirring the hair around my face. I've got a glass of water, some music and a notebook - everything I need. It's the first time this weekend - first time in many weekends, actually - that I'm alone with nothing I either have or feel an inclination to do. Instead, I simply note the way the sunshine casts shadows onto the floor, the chirping of the birds and the rustle of the trees are accompanied by the creaks of sunroom windows that have withstood many years of use. It is a Sunday evening, with the promise of a week's worth of work approaching, but the sun has yet to set and I feel I can cling to the weekend a little longer. I have time to while away the time and play around with the best way of describing the events of the weekend (to follow shortly). And I'm surprising myself with the realization that, for once, there's nothing more I'd rather do than just sit here in peace.