An antonym day

Blank was my schedule when I woke this morning to no alarm but the sun hot on my face refusing to be ignored. Brimming.

Clear was the brilliant blue sky when I stepped out of the apartment and groggily walked up the dusty, just waking up street to the steamy, filthy nunnery teahouse. Lavish.

Bare was the pitifully furnished room, a haven only for flies and sweet tea stains, where I clasped the nun's hand and stumbled over all the Tibetan I could muster. Teeming.

Unmarked was the newly bought notebook before the midget broke the pleasant intimacy and insisted I teach him and the two nuns the English alphabet. Again. Saturated.

Void was my mind after several hours of far from English conversation and various other greetings on the street. Gorged.

Vacant was my afternoon until a message from a student offered tea and a chance to listen once again to that which so frequently goes entirely unheard. Replete.

Hollow was the thermos by the time we had nearly overheated in the stuffy teahouse and the student-sided conversation had run dry. Overflowing.

Unfilled were the boiled egg halves, given to me by the nuns, while the insides waited to be mixed into a delicious morsel tasting of home with thanks to the gift of sweet pickle relish. Loaded.

Empty was my stomach, sloshing only with tea, when a dear friend suggested a meal of cold smashed cucumbers and soupy tofu at a literal hole in the wall near her house. Full.

Uncompleted was the evening until I had swung my bike back into the school gate as the clouds hung pink in a darkening sky and chatted laughed with a group of students milling around nearby. Finished.

Finished? I know better...