november, vii.

I still struggle with the same thing: staying still.

I’m obsessed with the notion of home. Belonging somewhere or anywhere. Because London, Rome, and Zagreb feel like a home just the same. Even though, something about the cities in the north such as Brussels, Amsterdam or Hamburg that doesn’t feel just quite right. It was a strange thing to realize but there it was. Screaming at me.

I crave islands and the sound waves crashing on the shore. Naturally, I’m in the heart of Europe.

The concept of time. Light and minutes passing. Disappearing but not moving. Like a black hole, turning the matter of my thoughts into nothing. The art of not being anywhere in particular.

Keeping my mind in one place. In order to heal, I needed to shift my habits instead of opinions. To stay still, I need to learn how to read one book at a time. Not six of them. To make tea and not to leave it abandoned to cool completely. To focus on colors and consistency.

I am trying to work on my morning flow. Learning how to breathe not only deep but with my entire being. To feel the oxygen expanding through my veins. In and out. Sometimes I have to stop walking on the street and force myself to inhale. The knot won’t go away; the mist in my head is thick.

To let myself sleep when my body needs it. Not to be overbearing. To call back the missed calls. To finish things. To take care of myself. Inside out. To be there.

To experience the minutes of days. To run a bath in the evening and be still.

To wake up alone and think nothing of it. I spend so much of my time imaging a different life, I forget to live.

The first coffee of the day. My roots in a single object. An entire history of a country preserved in a morning ritual. This is who I am. I haven’t forgotten.