My weekend has been quiet. I've been leaving music off; I can't seem to find the right songs to listen to right now. And though I can sometimes hear what neighbours play, it's dampened by walls that keep the silence within.
February's the start of spring at home, but not here. And squalls still swirl outside my building, always falling upwards outside my window. Is this the lowpoint? I never seem to remember past years. But people seem most splintered right now, with jagged edges of cold, and eyes like cut glass, hard and cold and beautiful. Or maybe it's just me and the splinters are my own...
I bought roses yesterday for my bedside table And I've been rereading Middlemarch and other old favourites, dipping into things, putting them down. The days are soft on the inside and in my dreamless sleep. The hours are hazy. I know the light is stretching now. I can see it, but I don't feel it yet. It all feels a long way away. A sort of dream I don't know if I belong in.
Products: Middlemarch by George Eliot | Antique and Pale Pink Hat Box from The Real Flower Company | Calendar by Rifle Paper | Pyjama from Toast | Løv is Beautiful tea from Løv | Boulder mug from Terrain