Life feels as real as it ever has before. I’m sunken into the loveseat with the balcony windows splayed open, my feet adjusted to receive the wind blowing in from the west, threatening with its voice of unoiled hinges to throw my bathrobe from the rails where I hook it to dry when laundry otherwise hasn’t leased the space.
My coffee with way too much milk and cream, a habit I’ve formed of putting “just a little more” in each day, rests on the cushion by my side, a visual fit for the likes of a Tempur-Pedic advertisement.
There are two lighters within arms reach of either hand. Two because one has no flint to light a spark, and the other has no fluid to burn the flame, but used together, one can light and one can burn. I would invest in a fully functional, single unit, but quite enjoy observing their symbiotic relationship and the reminder to “waste not want not.”
-Admittedly, I’ve never actually thought of any of that until just now and felt like I needed a poetic explanation-
There’s a chocolate croissant eyeballing me from the coffee table with its dark cacao pupil; just one because we ate the other three, and tap water warming in clay goblets the local ceramicist gifted us in a restaurant one afternoon.
It’s from these moments in downtime, where I’ve found myself comfortable existing in a space of my own, that I realize I’m no longer on vacation.