What a better joy than stealing a subtle snooze after succulent lunch, to watch the catapulting crowd from the glass pane of your sky scraper, to listen to frenzied fracas of your kids on phone, to await the pleasant knock of evening with luscious, foamy coffee amidst an disorganized whirl of chirps, to plan for the arcane of approaching activities for the day ahead, the afternoon fills the vacuum of our life and gives us some tame time to replenish our minds with the scuttled supply of freshly secreted neurotransmitters.
Post pubertal phase of the day, afternoon, is like middle age of our lives. It is passed with little realization of its presence and we seldom halt our hollering steps to appreciate the effervescent efficacy of afternoon. With the superfluous streamlet of fresh morning before it and the sulky shadows of nubile night after it, the afternoon is mostly shorn of of its existential importance. But I love to soak myself in the rapture of immeasurable perspectives that aftermath of morning provides.
The afternoons provide us a much needed buffer from the pulsating mornings full of fuss and frills and from the esoteric establishment of mystifying nights. It’s so pleasant to appreciate the slow pace of clock pendulums, to feel the tender tentacles of easy-flowing breeze, to organize the disordered cords of dust-worn guitar, to cuddle up with the cushy soft toy you were gifted by your spouse, to sip the fizzy lemonade and let your taste buds bathe in ecstasy. The afternoons are big-hearted and breathtakingly sensuous, provided you make some attempt to swirl your soul from the accustomed attachments with mornings and nights.