12:40pm on a Sunday afternoon

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I slept through a bad dream last night, but the weather is good. Let’s enjoy that for now.

It was too cold and I had to wear socks, colourful socks, but the weather is good. Let’s enjoy that for now.

It was 2am and I was still up, as I usually am, loving every page of Sputnik Sweetheart yet the house was empty and I was scared, but the weather is good. Let’s enjoy that for now.

The family went away for the weekend, to officially allow the man to have the sister. I should have been there, but they got him because she’s 30 this year and it makes me sick, but the weather is good. Let’s enjoy that for now.

It was a good weekend anyway. I spent it in bed with Haruki Murakami, sipping on cold coffee and listening to the rain and Asa and Lorde. It was almost perfect. Almost. His shadow hovered over my thought space, but the weather is good. Let’s enjoy that for now.

I abandoned my workout weeks ago. In the mirror, my body looked like those in the ads. Well, not defined and all but enviable. Oh, it’s been a long time coming, but hey if it’s looking great then maybe we can afford the manic episodes after all, huh? But the weather is good. Let’s enjoy that for now.

I hate the smell of fresh paint. It makes me sneeze but the house looks great. It’s like there’s new life, except walls don’t breathe. Or talk(But they have ears, I have heard).  Same old ghosts with new clothes, but the weather is good. Let’s enjoy that for now.

I haven’t journaled in a week. I lost myself in the maelstrom called life. I forgive myself.

The weather? It is singing Ditmas and wearing nothing, it is toes meeting the cold floor making a sandwich at 2am, it is Laika on a spaceship, it is solitude.

The weather? It is a dream weaver, it is owning revolutions and taking part in them, it is love on a Sunday morning, it is finding it’s voice.

The weather is good. Let’s enjoy that for now.

“Where do you go when you’re by yourself?…” ~Moving On, Asa

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6 thoughts on “12:40pm on a Sunday afternoon

  1. “I spent it in bed with Haruki Murakami, sipping on cold coffee and …” Cold coffee? We need to talk.

    There is pain in this piece. Will she keep holding on to that sliver of joy- the weather?

    Will she leave those silent walls?

    For how long?

    Liked by 1 person

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