On Rest is published in Issue 02 of THE ARTL-NE.

It’s precisely 5.17pm on a Sunday afternoon and I’m sitting at my desk watching the day’s last light filter out across the sky. With every passing glance it’s a touch of a shade darker. I’ve opted against the gym and against cooking an extravagant meal. Not because I’m intrinsically lazy, but because it is a Sunday after all, and if The Big Guy in the Sky has taught us anything ever, it’s that Sundays are for rest. Just like Fridays are for celebrating without needing a reason, Tuesdays are for cheap eats and Mondays are for the blues.

In an ideal world, every day would—should—be a day for rest. I’m not talking forgoing strenuous activities or putting your life on hold; instead, it’s about remembering the simple beauty in a breath when the world around you is often self-imploding.

Because rest is not something that any one person can define, it’s too subjective a concept for absolute statements. The pull and sway of each of our lives lends itself to a different style of relaxation and recovery. It’s personal, and perhaps that is why it is meaningful. For instance, I am a lonesome recover-er. I recharge in solitude, I long for isolated calmness.

Just this morning I was going about my business when I happened to stumble upon a conversation. I didn’t mean to listen in so intently, but sometimes ears have this habit of picking up what they don’t need to hear, like the sound of a truck roaring, or a slow dripping faucet, or even seemingly irrelevant conversations by strangers (the best kinds). Amid this conversation, this stranger said something like: ‘I find it hard to relax. I can’t really do it at all, because if I do, I’m afraid that I will be alone with my thoughts for too long. I need to keep myself occupied.’

Immediately I found myself thinking: how apt and relatable? What cognisance!! And then, I thought about it a bit more, and another more integral part of me realised that: no—how sad and frustrating is that??

Because, come to think of it, I live to relax. I plan to have no plans. I thrive on the couch. I yearn for comfort, for cosiness. I am content in my own head. I am a seasoned napper, a skilled daydreamer, and I am someone whose heart will always skip a beat when smoke-bombing on a night out.

This overheard crumb of conversation drifted with me throughout the day, in the gaps between my own exchanges, or in the pauses between errands. I thought about rest. About the ways in which we rest, how we remove ourselves from demanding activities and just learn to power down.

Like that scene in Seinfeld where Elaine’s boyfriend-at-the-time, Puddy, sits on the plane and simply stares ahead into the back of the seat in front of him. ‘Do you want something to read?’ she asks. But no, the simple act of him being content in nothingness lingers there, behind the comedy. It was a state of power. He was almost de-existing. It was—I think—absolute rest.

I also think rest is a personal assurance that everything is going to be OK. Rest is wearing the same outfit as yesterday. Rest is going on vacation without booking anywhere to stay. It is sitting on the bottom of the pool and looking upwards.

Rest is tinkering. It is spending your weekend off working on something else. It is recharging by using a special energy reserved for hobbies.

Rest can be found in a sigh. It is learning to portray your feelings with a look. It is the imaginary click at the end of a phone call. It is falling asleep with the TV on.

Rest is in the strokes of your favourite painting at the National Art Gallery. It is the epitome of flat-soled shoes. It is buying cheap take-out on the way home, just because.

Rest is, and has always been, just because.

Rest is all of the above, but it can also be none of it. What matters most is that you don’t forget how to do it.

Sam x