If we were having tea, I’d tell you how desperate I am to feel like myself again and you’d say that instead of trying to find the old feelings, I should rather embrace the ones I have now. Then I’d ask, “But what are they? How do I name the things I feel?” I don’t know if anything I’ve felt lately is even real.
If we were having tea, I’d tell you about alternative realities and characters from the book I’ll never write. I keep seeing them everywhere and feel guilty because I should be writing their lives, but right now I’m too consumed with my own. Come on, don’t look at me like that. I do realise it is a poor excuse and I know what you’re about to say (Just write! It’s selfish not to.) I wish it was that simple.
Or is it really that simple?
Oh, look, it’s starting to snow again and right now it looks kind of pretty, with all the Christmas lights twinkling outside and us safe and warm inside the small cafe I would never have discovered on my own. It’s nice to be out of the house. For the first time in weeks time seems to have slowed down, or maybe even come to a complete stop, just so we can enjoy this silent wintry evening for a little bit longer. Have you noticed the clocks adorning every bit of space in this place—there are even paintings of them—but not a single pair of hands shows the right time. It’s strangely comforting, don’t you think?
Would life be easier if we measured time in sunsets and the changing sky?