Luxury is very specific, to the individual, to place and eon, to comparative abilities to obtain, purchase, afford, and make reality. All too often such an imagined panacea is an object, a three-dimensional substance to be purchased, earned, worn, consumed, flamboyantly displayed, envied, treasured above and beyond all other possessions.
Sitting quietly this afternoon, contemplating nothing more than what might be on the menu for dinner and partaking in the occasional morsal of tea or sweet biscuit, it occurred to me that after multiple decades of existence the accumulated value of extravagance is the ability, the time, the possibility to do nothing very much at all. I found myself staring quizzically out of a screened window and wondering if my next few minutes would perhaps involve dressing reasonably warmly and stretching my legs in the great outdoors or alternatively simply taking myself back to my cast iron day bed and enjoying a further cat inspired nap.
The realization that the measure of humanities furtive accent to the very pinnacle of the food chain was but a precarious climb to the acceptable ability to curl up and sleep without the wholly disagreeable weight of a guilty conscience.
As already mentioned cats are inclined to nap incessantly, so do most critters the human species likes to adopt and present as pets, as do all the sentient seeming creatures on this green earth and the seas surrounding. No doubt the more intelligent folks amongst you would confirm to me that this vital function of existence is enjoyed by all beings, the obviously thinking and comatose appearing.
So as I choose to lay my head on down pillow and pull a light cover over my resting frame the question truly vexing my conscience is not the sumptuously pleasant process of siesta but rather the mysterious reasoning for the guilt that accompanies its ever happy and relaxing accomplishment. Why do we insist on holding ourselves to standards beyond our grasp, assuming we have some mission in life that exceeds simple joy and happiness, that must endlessly strive for the unattainable rather than happily merge with the soft luxury of linen sheets and well stuffed duvet?