I just need to get through this month. It hasn’t been a good month so far and I feel guilty about that.
The guilt is the worst. The lack of will to do something. Anything.
I flip through my favorite books, not reading, just catching a line or two here and there.
I need to vacuum. Scrub the floor. Purge the closet space. The things I own are suffocating me.
There is an oleander in the middle of my bedroom now. We are from the same region and almost the same age. Isn’t that a weird thing to say about a plant?
I couldn’t sleep at 2 AM the other night. I stood up on the bed, feeling the extra height. I wondered what was going on in the other apartments. I practiced yoga for half an hour. Keeping myself inversed and feeling a crack in my right hip. It happens more often now. Blood rushed through my body, like life.
The only consolation about falling asleep at almost four in the morning is that light won’t come back for another few hours.
I bought a packet of sliced bread and cream cheese for dinner. Decided not to feel guilty about it.
Most of the time, I wish I lived somewhere else. Which means I am singlehandedly disrespecting Prague. For saving my life. Guilt. But cities no longer dictate how I feel.
I came to the realization that I particularly dislike turquoise hues. I started an abstract experiment color study in hopes I’ll learn to like it. It seems so unnatural.
I need to make time for my travel journal and watercolor practice.
I dream of making moussaka for him again.
Riders On The Storm. On repeat.
November 13, 2017