Due to the different meal schedules at work and at home, we may eat at different times every day and cannot maintain regular meal times. Some experts pointed out that this is not good for health.
According to research findings, eating breakfast, lunch, and dinner at about the same time every day, or maintaining a roughly stable schedule for three meals in the day, is very important for maintaining good physical condition. This is because following and maintaining a fixed diet schedule is associated with a reduced risk of obesity, metabolic syndrome, cardiovascular disease, and mood improvement. At the same time, this habit is also conducive to the good operation of our own biological clock, so that we can deal with daily work and life in a good physical and mental state.
this troubled days painted Johann Veraguth his great picture ready. He had come from the sick Pierre, frightened and troubled in his heart, and it had become more difficult than ever to tame the thoughts at work in him and to find that perfect calm which was the secret of his strength and which he had to pay so dearly. But his will was strong, he succeeded, and in the hours of the afternoon, with a beautiful, soft light, the picture received the last small corrections and contractions.
When he put the palette down and sat down in front of the canvas, he felt strangely dreary. He knew well that this picture was something special and that he had given a lot with it. But he felt himself empty and burned out. And he had no one to show his work to. The friend was far away and Pierre was sick and he had no one else. He would only become more indifferent to the effects and reverberations of his work Get a sense of it from afar, from newspapers and letters. Oh, that was nothing, that was less than nothing, the look of a friend or a kiss from a lover alone could have made him happy, rewarded and strengthened.
For a quarter of an hour he stood still in front of his picture, which had drunk the strength and the good hours of a few weeks and looked into his eyes brightly, while he himself stood exhausted and strange before his work.
“Oh well, I’ll sell it and pay for my Indian trip with it,” he said in defenseless cynicism. He locked the workshop doors and went into the house to check on Pierre, whom he found asleep. The boy looked better than he had at noon, sleep had reddened his face, his mouth was half open, the expression of agony and desolation was gone.
“How quickly it goes with children!” He said in a whisper to his wife in the doorway. She smiled weakly and he saw that she too was breathing a sigh of relief and that her concern, too, had been greater than she had shown.
Dining alone with his wife and Albert did not seem tempting to him.
“I’m going to town,” he said, “and I’m not here that evening.”
The sick Pierre lay slumbering in his cot, his mother darkened the room and left him alone.
He dreamed that he was walking slowly through the flower garden. Everything was a little different and much bigger and wider than usual, he went and went and came to no end. The beds were more beautiful than he had ever seen them, but the flowers all looked strangely glassy, large and strange, and the whole thing shone with a sad, dead beauty.
A little apprehensive, he walked around a roundabout with large-flowered bushes, a blue butterfly hung quietly sucking on a white blossom. It was unnaturally quiet, and there was no gravel on the paths, but something soft that you walked on like on carpets.
His mom came to meet him on the other side. But she didn’t see him or nod to him, she looked stern and sad in the air and passed silently like a ghost.
And soon afterwards, on a different path, he saw his father walking as well, and later Albert, and everyone was walking straight ahead quietly and strictly and nobody wanted to see him. Enchanted, they ran around lonely and stiff, and it seemed as if it had to stay that way at all times, as if there would never be a look into their staring eyes and never a laugh on their faces, as if a sound would never waft into this impenetrable silence and never that The slightest wind stir the motionless branches and leaves.
The worst part was that he couldn’t call out himself. He was not prevented by anything, it did not hurt him, but he had no courage and no real will to do so; he saw that everything had to be like this and that it would only be more terrible if you rebelled against it.
Pierre walked slowly on through the soulless splendor of the garden, a thousand splendid flowers stood shining in the bright, dead air, as if they were not real and alive, and from time to time he met Albert or the mother or the father again and they walked past him and each other always in the same rigid strangeness.
It seemed to him as if it had been like this for a long time, maybe years, and those other times when the world and the garden were alive and the people were happy and talkative and he himself was full of lust and wildness, those times were unthinkably deep , blind past. Perhaps it had always been like this, and the previous one was just a pretty, foolish dream.
Finally he came to a small stone water basin where the gardener used to fill the watering cans and in which he himself once kept a couple of tiny tadpoles. The water stood motionless in a green light, it reflected the stone edge and the overhanging leaves of a perennial with yellow star flowers and looked pretty, deserted and somehow unhappy, like everything else.
“If you fall in there, then you drown and are dead,” the gardener once said. But it wasn’t deep at all.
Pierre stepped to the edge of the oval pool and leaned forward.
Then he saw his own face reflected in the water. It looked like the faces of the others: old and pale and frozen deep in indifferent severity.
He saw it terrified and astonished, and suddenly the secret fearfulness and senseless sadness of his condition rose overwhelmingly in him. He tried to scream, but there was no sound. He wanted to cry out loud, but he could only grimace and grin helplessly.
Then his father came back, and Pierre turned to him with a tremendous effort of all the forces of his soul. All the fear of death and all the unbearable suffering of his desperate heart fled in silent sobs to his father, who came up in his ghostly calm and again did not seem to see him.
“Father!” Wanted to call out the boy, and although there was no sound to be heard, the violence of his terrible misery penetrated the quiet lonely man. The father turned his face and looked at him.
He looked him attentively with his searching painter’s gaze in the pleading eyes, he smiled weakly and he nodded softly to him, kind and regretful, but without consolation, as if there was absolutely no help here. For a brief moment a shadow of love and related sorrow ran over his stern face, and in that small moment he was no longer the powerful father, but rather a poor, helpless brother.
Then he looked straight ahead again and walked slowly away in the same steady step that he had not interrupted.
Pierre saw him go and disappear, the little pond and the path and the flower garden grew dark before his terrified eyes and sank like a cloud of mist. He woke up with aching temples and a burning dry throat, found himself in bed alone in the dim little room, tried to think back in astonishment, but found no memories and lay on the other side, exhausted and discouraged.
Only slowly did he regain full consciousness and let him breathe a sigh of relief. It was ugly to be sick and have a headache, but it was bearable, and it was easy and sweet compared to the deadly feeling of the dread dream.
“What’s the point of all this torment?” Thought Pierre, crawling tightly under the covers. Why did you get sick? If it was a punishment, what should he be punished for? He hadn’t even eaten anything forbidden, as he had done before, when he’d spoiled himself with half-ripe plums. He had forbidden them, and since he had eaten them anyway, it served him right and he had to bear the consequences. That was clear. But now? Why was he in bed now, why did he vomit and why did it sting so miserably in his head?
He had been awake for a long time when his mother came back into the room. She drew back the curtain on the window, soft evening light flowed in full and mild.
“How are you, darling? Did you sleep well? ”
He didn’t answer. Lying on his side, he turned his eyes up and looked at her. She held the gaze in amazement, it was strangely scrutinizing and serious.
“No fever,” she thought comforted.
“Do you want something to eat now?”
Pierre shook his head weakly.
“Can’t I get you anything?”
“Water,” he said softly.
She gave him a drink, but he only took a swallow of the bird, then closed his eyes again.
Suddenly the piano rang out from mother’s room. The tones swelled up in a broad wave.
“Do you hear?” Asked Mrs. Adele.
Pierre had opened his eyes wide and his face twisted as if in agony.
“Don’t!” He shouted, “don’t! Leave me alone! ”
And he covered his ears with both hands and buried his head in the pillow.
Sighing, Frau Veraguth went over and asked Albert not to go on playing. She came back and sat by Pierre’s bed until he fell asleep again.
That evening it was very quiet in the house. Veraguth was gone, Albert was upset and suffered from the fact that he was not allowed to play the piano. They went to bed early and the mother left her door open to hear Pierre if he needed anything during the night.