These are soft days. Jack Frost in the mornings and a soft mist by evening. The greens of sage and sprouted eucalyptus, the honeyed light of candles, the warmth of cupped teacups. The world feels muted now. A softness, a haze. And I toil through it, sometimes fighting for something brighter, more certain, and others falling into its foggy embrace, turning my face into the pillows, sinking down in the tub.
I'm caught in that beautiful hangover that comes after travel. Holding onto ideas born in the air (the best place to make promises to oneself). Ideas of living differently and of letting go. A deeper love of home but of eking out too. And I love how travel colours my normal routines with a soft optimism days after it's done, how it creates new planes of possibilities in the daily place we return to. How it reminds me of a time when this too felt like a place I had travelled to and not the home it's become.
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