The big cup of coffee in bed every morning. The cold beer sitting on the terrace. The taste of mango, avocado and tomatoes on olive bread and the reassuring feel of pen to paper as I pour my world out to you, drip by drip. These are the things that make me feel at home. These are the moments I can simply be. And whilst worry has crept back trying to steer me out of this path of joy into one of safety, I’ve fought back. Told the dark force that, this time, it won’t win. I will. From now on.
“Because in the end, you won’t remember the time you spent working in the office or mowing your lawn. Climb that goddamn mountain.”
Letting go of the shackles. Putting myself in the face of excitement.
Trusting the process. Trusting it all.
An unexpected sunny Sunday, my scrawny arms relishing in that familiar kiss. A week of work achievements, of knowing I’ve found my “thing”. The reassuring nod, the gentle smile. Another week stepping back onto the uncomfortable, sometimes painful conveyor belt, rushing full throttle back into the past. But it’s okay. It’s all okay. The tenth paper envelope at the door, your familiar drawings scrawled on the front. One day I’ll scrawl them onto my skin, a story inked across my own canvas forever more. The music you recommended has echoed around the flat ever since.
“And a lion, a lion roars would you not listen?
If a child, a child cries would you not forgive them?”
A transcendent yoga class. Laughter on the sofa. My sister’s smile.
Everything. Nothing. All the colours in between.