The stillness of the humid night makes my mind wander into a distance that it has rarely traversed into since 2016.
Someone once said, “Live every day like it is your last day.” That has to be one of the most ridiculous things I have ever heard.
Last summer, I saw you on my way home from work.
It’s cold outside. It rained earlier. A small shower that soaks through everything that you wear. It’s classic English weather, or so I’ve been told.
The cat’s purr is a comforting sound, a rumbling that resonates deep in her chest. Its comforting vibrations trickle into my skin and into my lungs, wrapping so closely around my heart that I forget I need to breathe.
The cat stops walking and I, too, stop breathing.
It wasn’t hard to get hold of you. You were online when I sent the message. You might have taken a few more minutes to respond than necessary, but you did anyway, and I thank you for that.
The day we talked, the sun was about to set. It turned the sky pink, out at the sea.
2019. It feels like it is a repeat of 2018 but instead of feeling like it launched itself away from the linear timeline, it feels like it is dragging on and occupying the space that 2018 didn’t spend any time occupying.
Has anyone ever felt like their name is not their own name? I’ve been feeling this disassociation for a while now. I’m not even sure if I can confidently tell you my name anymore because it almost feels like I don’t have a name. I just am.