I'm curing that old familiar Sunday-angst with cups of strong coffee and a big bucket of white paint.
The latter is obviously not for snacking but for re-decorating my brother's room. Little by little it's being turned into a studio for my Dad. A place to paint, create and enjoy the view of the fields and apple trees.
I wish I had a safe place to call my own. I love that I can stay here, heal here, but I miss having my own space to hide in. My own books up in the shelves, my own food in the fridge. I gave all of that up as I was terrified of becoming something I didn't want to be. I gave it up as I hated the thought of changing nothing but my relationship-status and I was afraid of falling so deep into the darkness that I would have winded up calling round to his flat at 3 in the morning, drunk out of my mind.
So I gave it up to start again, and when the rainstorms and thunder wakes me up early in the morning and you can smell the garden and the ozone as you pull your window shut it's not that bad.
I just need to find a new city.
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