Between sloth and comfort is an extremely humid place....

My glass of choya is sweating profusely in this stifling room. The whirling of the ceiling fan is in steady rhythm with my heartbeat as it swishes the heat around. I sat with my sticky chin rested on my bended knees. '

And I ponder:

‘Why do I not switch on the air-con?’

The switch is within view. In fact, I needn’t even turn my head to see it from the corner of my peepers. I have every reason to get up and end my miserable roasting misery. But I couldn’t. I can’t.

My brain have sent signals to all my limbs, telling them that it is just too much work. The energy I have to expend to unbend these knees, my neck to laboriously support my own head, my feet to push off to lift my fat ass off this bed – just way too much work.

Even if I did make it there and back, I may not know how to get back into this same fetal position. I would try and I would fail and I would curse myself for even getting up in the first place.

Beats of sweat falling.

Dilemma.