The Quiet Work of Doing Nothing

あくびして
なにもせずとも
いのちうごく

akubi shite / nanimo sezutomo / inochi ugoku
yawning softly / even when I do nothing / life moves on

–––

It was a Sunday in early spring, the kind of day that feels too quiet for its own good.
Rain had passed through the city overnight, leaving the streets damp and reflective, like someone had polished them just for the light. I woke up late, made coffee, and realized I had nothing I needed to do.

No errands. No deadlines. No one waiting for me.
Just a long, open day—the kind that used to feel like freedom when I was younger, but lately makes me feel strangely adrift.

I decided to take my laundry to the small self-service place near the station. Not because it needed doing, but because I needed something to do.

It was almost empty when I arrived. Just one other person—a woman about my age, sitting cross-legged on one of the plastic chairs, reading a paperback that she wasn’t really reading. Outside, the light flickered between clouds, silver one minute and dull grey the next.

For a while, we sat in silence. The hum of the dryers filled the air—steady, hypnotic. There’s something calming about laundromats: everything spinning, doing its quiet, invisible work. It makes you feel like you can pause for a bit, and the world will keep turning without complaint.

At some point, she looked up from her book and said,
“Do lazy days make you feel rested or unproductive?”

The question caught me off guard. It wasn’t flirtation, or small talk—it felt too direct for that.

“Unproductive,” I said. “Almost always. I can’t seem to just exist without measuring it.”

She nodded. “Yeah. I used to think I was the only one who couldn’t rest properly.”

The dryer beeped, and she didn’t move to open it. We just sat there, listening to the soft tick of the timer resetting itself.

“I’ve been trying to fight that feeling,” I said. “When I have nothing to do, I try not to fill the space anymore. I let the boredom just… exist. It’s hard. But I think it’s the only way anything actually repairs itself.”

She tilted her head. “Repairs itself?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Like regeneration. You don’t see it happening, but something’s rebuilding. You just have to get out of its way.”

She smiled faintly, the kind of half-smile that says I want to believe that.

The dryers whirred in steady circles. The air smelled faintly of heat and fabric softener.
I took a sip from the canned coffee I’d bought from the vending machine outside. It was lukewarm now, but it tasted like the kind of bitterness you make peace with.

“I had one of those days today,” she said finally. “A nothing day. I woke up, sat on the floor for a while, scrolled through my phone, put it down, picked it up again. It felt like standing still while everyone else was running.”

“I know that feeling,” I said. “But I think sometimes that’s exactly what the body needs. Stillness. It’s like when the sea looks calm—beneath it, everything’s still moving.”

She leaned back in her chair, eyes half-closed. “That’s comforting. I always think something’s wrong when I feel like that. Like I should be pushing harder.”

“I used to think that too,” I said. “Now I think pushing is what breaks us. Rest isn’t doing nothing—it’s the part where things quietly start to work again.”

She laughed softly. “So you’re saying I’m healing?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Probably in more ways than you realize.”

Outside, a tram passed, its bell faint and distant. The windows of the laundromat trembled for a second, then went still again.

When the machines stopped spinning, we both stood up. The moment felt like waking from a dream—not dramatic, just gently reentering motion.

I pulled my clothes from the dryer. They were warm, folded by gravity into soft, imperfect shapes. She did the same, careful and quiet.

At the door, she turned and said,
“You really think regeneration happens in the background?”

I nodded. “Yeah. The system fixes itself if you stop trying to fix it.”

She thought for a moment, then smiled again. “That’s kind of beautiful.”

And then she was gone—just like that, slipping into the soft grey afternoon, carrying her laundry and her slow repair with her.

I stood there for a while longer, watching the machines still spin even though they were empty. Maybe it was just momentum, or maybe it was proof that rest doesn’t mean stopping completely—it means trusting that movement continues without you forcing it.

When I stepped outside, the rain had started again—gentle, almost polite. The air smelled new. I didn’t hurry. For once, I didn’t need to.

It wasn’t a remarkable day, but it was a real one. The kind of day where nothing happens, and yet something quietly resets.

And maybe that’s enough.

–––

If you’ve been feeling guilty for slowing down,
if your lazy days leave you restless—
try not to fill them.

Let the boredom sit with you.
Let the silence breathe.

Something’s working beneath the surface.
You just need to give it time.