The passing of time is different these days. They are filled with nothingness. Wake up, stay alive, sleep, same thing all over again.
I’d love to write a letter to the universe, or write a poem about self-love. But in all honesty, my head feels empty. I’m pulling words out of it but it’s a muddled knot and I can’t make anything up.
This staying-home-doing-nothing is quite draining. The longer I stay in my room, the louder the world around me gets. Echoing church bells, explosive fireworks, my flatmate’s way-too-loud tv, onions being chopped in the kitchen.
I want to wear stars and drink hope and have my legs take me through the city on a ridiculous summer night with friends. I want to sparkle in the moonlight and get drunk on love.
I want to breathe again, feel again, be again. I’m looking for meaning, and so far I’ve only found the pastizzi shop around the corner. I want to create, not for consumption, but for expression.
I bury my head in my pillow and imagine being near the sea. I adore the waves that keep coming and going, regardless of what’s going on around them. The edges of the sea cover vulnerable pieces of earth, where beings submerge themselves in sand and salt.
God, Good Lord, Universe: I’d like to feel alive again. I want to go where love is alive. The London underground? Sunflower fields? The local bar?