Staying is easy. You just don't move. Your feet remain still. Your body rests.
Staying can be difficult for the brain though. Does it make sense to stay? Is it the right time? The right place? Doesn't it look like the perfect day to walk a long distance? Who knows if it will be dry tomorrow?
I closed my eyes for another 10 minutes to postpone the decision. And then another 10 minutes. And 10 more.
And then I stayed.
The luxury of a roof, a bed, a table. A window you can sit in front of to stare at the hills while drinking tea. A nap in the late afternoon.
Sunday. A day to rest.
I read the last book I found, it was in a small house on a city square, especially designed to house books, books people want to get rid of. I had seen another one in Hückeswagen. There I took the smallest book I could find. Tolstoy's Kreuzersonate. There was a nicer collection in this other town of which I've forgotten the name already. I saw Donna Tart, Jeanette Winterson and a book I started reading in Dutch many times but never finished. Der Schöpfung, Franco Ferruci. I left the Kreuzersonate and took the Ferruci. It is the story of god, written by god himself. A god who forgets, messes up, is dreaming and drifting and drinks whiskey in airplanes. A lonely god who isn't in control of what he creates and doesn't understand how he brings things in the world in the first place. A god who asks himself many questions.
I read and slept. And read and slept. And before I knew it, it was another day. Time to leave. Or stay another day?