the shape of rest

she sits on the couch, her body a map of exhaustion. her eyes, sunken, her skin, pale. she's been working for weeks, without a break, and it's taken its toll. she closes her eyes, and lets her head fall back, the weight of her exhaustion, crushing. her chest rises, and falls, a slow, steady rhythm. her hand, slack, lies on her lap, a loose fist. she's a still life, a painting of rest. a moment of quiet, in a life of chaos. the world outside, fades away, and all that's left, is the sound of her breathing. it's a sound, that's both familiar, and strange. a reminder, that even in rest, there's a kind of beauty. a beauty, that's not always noticed, but is always there. she sits, and breathes, and lets the world, slow down. and in that moment, everything, seems to come to a standstill. the clock, on the wall, stops ticking, the trees, outside, stop swaying, and the world, holds its breath. it's a moment, of perfect stillness, a moment, of rest.