“ There was a novel growing in him, but its exact nature eluded him. It would be a big book, he knew that, ranging widely over space and time. A book of journeys. That felt right. He had dealt, as well as he knew how, with the worlds from which he had come. Now he needed to connect those worlds to the very different world in which he had made his life. He was beginning to see that this, rather than India or Pakistan or politics or magic realism, would be his real subject, the one he would worry away at for the rest of his career: the great question of how the world joins up—not only how the East flows into the West and the West into the East but how the past shapes the present even as the present changes our understanding of the past, and how the imagined world, the location of dreams, art, invention, and, yes, faith, sometimes leaks across the frontier separating it from the “real” place in which human beings mistakenly believe they live.” - Salman Rushdie
I try to never set an alarm on Sunday mornings. The other six days are filled with wailings errupting from my iPhone, precariously plugged in at the foot of my bed. Sundays allow for rest, for the natural slumber of my body, for recovery. There is nothing quite like the stretch of waking up naturally, burrowing your face into the warm pillow, peeking through eyelids and sinking back down into the mattress, unaware of the time, completely at peace. These are my favorite moments of the week; before the anxiety of being productive comes on, before my trip to the grocery store and the guilt of not going to the gym, before I neglect to do everything on my to-do list and lounge around the apartment all day. A quiet moment is hard to come by in a world that can’t stop and breathe without someone running into them.