Quelling nerves with steamed Japanese purple potato (salt, lemon), Carl Sagan’s ‘Cosmos’ and thoughts of autumn color schemes; cinnamon, rust, tangerine, gold.
Today has been full and fine but all the easy brunches and warm bike rides in the world can’t give you immunity.
I deleted five pages of writing because the words were gathering dust, because I could. I’m obsessed with new beginnings, cycles, seasons - the illusion of control that comes with dividing time up into bite sized pieces. These are the last warm days of summer, the windows stay open late into the night and the cool breeze is still and sobering. Things feel stranger than usual, difficult for small reasons. I kept my first entry from June four years ago, because it was the first. A tiny commitment to words, an acknowledgement of what Didion calls the compulsive impulse to write things down, ‘inexplicable to those who do not share it, useful only accidentally, only secondarily, in the way that any compulsion tries to justify itself’
— Anaïs Nin
I have bruises I don’t remember getting, my muscles hurt from sleeping strangely and making love and falling over. I have beetroot stains on the palms of my hands and cuts on my knees. A watch tan, chipped nailpolish and split ends. It is summer all over again.
— Kurt Vonnegut
We’re growing up in between breaths and it’s still the smallest things that carry the most weight, that glow the brightest. It’s the outstretched fingers, the hesitations, the negative space between bodies. Today my heart swells quietly for silly, shallow reasons. Today I measure how little I’ve slept by the dampness of my hair and I just need to remember this - how I’m giving myself permission to feel again.