only exist in the moment he is doing them.
684 Words
The thought came very late.
Not a decision, but more like a secondary reflex that appeared after his body had tried everything else. He sat still in the apartment long enough to realize: without some reason, the day wouldn't go on.
No one came to remind him.
No background rhythm to pull him along.
So, he set himself a task.
Very small. Almost trivial.
To tidy his desk.
This thought carried no motivation. It was just specific enough to trigger movement. He stood up and went to his desk. The desk wasn't cluttered. Only a few items were out of their usual places. But he started anyway.
He rearranged the papers. Aligned the edges. Wiped away a very faint speck of dust. These actions used to be meant to prepare—for work, for performance, for a series of actions with a destination. Now they existed only as an excuse to stand and do.
When the table was tidier than it had been initially, he stopped.
There was no sense of accomplishment.
Only a new void appeared: what next?
He thought of another thing.
Making coffee again.
Not because he wanted to drink it. Just because this action had a clear sequence. Water. Powder. Wait. Pour. He performed each step carefully, as if doing it in the right order could create the feeling that the day was “going right.”
The coffee was ready.
He took a sip. No different from this morning. But this time, he stood, not sat. Standing helps the body maintain the state of doing something. Sitting easily leads to stopping.
He looked around, searching for another reason.
Go out and buy something.
Nothing specific needed. Just a pretext.
He took his wallet. Put on his shoes. Opened the door.
Leaving the house this time was different from this morning. No more inertia. Each action was driven by a false premise: I'm doing this for another reason. A chain of reasons, fragile but sufficient.
Outside, he walked slower. No need to be on time. No time. But he maintained a moderate pace, as if adhering to some invisible standard he himself had just established.
The convenience store on the corner opened. He went in.
This space was perfect for false reasons. No one asked. No one expected. He could choose anything and call it a purpose.
He stood in front of the shelves longer than necessary. Looking at items he didn't really need. Finally, he took something very small—something that wouldn't change if he didn't buy it.
After paying, he paused for a second.
Done.
No next step was predetermined.
He went outside, holding the item in his hand. It was light. Not heavy enough to give the feeling of having accomplished something. But it existed—proof that he had just completed a series of actions with a beginning and an end.
He turned back.
This time, entering the house was no different from leaving. Not returning. Just changing spaces. He placed the object on the table. Looked at it for a few seconds. Then turned away.
He realized he was doing something very specific, very new:
creating temporary purposes for himself.
Not to live better.
Just to keep the day from stagnating.
He created small tasks. Sorting. Cleaning. Opening. Closing. Going. Coming. Each task connected to the next by a very weak link. But enough to keep the movement.
And while doing so, he suddenly understood something that sent a chill down his spine:
before, reasons didn't need to be real.
Just need to be validated by the system.
Now that validation is gone.
And the reasons he created
only exist in the moment he is doing them.
When the action ends,
the meaning disappears with it.
He stood in the middle of the room, exhaling.
The day was still passing.
Not collapsing.
Not breaking.
But it was being held back
by reasons so thin they couldn't accumulate.
And he knew—no one needed to tell him—#that at some point,#building his own day like this# would be more tiring than being led.
- Writer
