6.

There are too many things I want to do and not enough focus to actually do them. Time? Yes, I have the time. But when it comes down to actually deciding what to do with that time, I get stuck. “Are you sure that is what you want to do? But what about this instead? But why not just scroll some more? But it’s sunny so maybe go outside? Dinner? The dishes?!” And once I clear the (metaphoric and literal) table, it’s almost time for bed so I might as well not start. Rinse, repeat, get nothing actually interesting done.

(100)

5.

One day I’ll have windows that open on all sides of my house so that I’ll never miss out when the wind blows through and the rain falls and the sun rises and the moon sets and the birds visit and the trees wave their arms hello. One day I will have a big table in the middle of the room - an every day all purpose table - scattered with mug books pencils bowl flowers stones crumbs paper - in other words: life. One day I will sit at my living table and look out at the world and sip my tea.

(100)

4.

Sometimes I don’t even know what I am doing. I feel like a flatpack piece of furniture from ikea: all jumbled in the box with incomprehensible assembly instructions. Each part carefully illustrated, except that drawings don’t always tell you everything you need to know, and some of those missing bits are pretty damn important to the structural integrity of the final thing. How could you feel good about putting your eggs (all of them in one basket, naturally) on a snødlæk that could fall apart at any second? But I digress. I only went to ikea for the meatballs anyway.

(100)

3.

The wind comes racing in from the east: unusual, foreboding, warning. It came in suddenly, barreling between the skyscrapers like that loud dinner guest no one invited. I walk boldly into it anyway, fight against its attempt to win me over. I turn, lean backwards into it. Trust the resistance to hold me up. Trust something I can’t see. How? Why? Close my eyes and feel the strength that catches me. Open my eyes and stumble. Close my eyes and turn back to face it. Open my eyes and see what is flying in the wind, coming straight for m—

(100)

2.

From the top of the tree, I see everything laid out in front of me. The whole of my realm. The dropping sun bathes everything in gold and shadow. From up here, the worries of down there are insignificant. High above the noise and the rush and the here-no-there-no-back-again and the blur of time that passes without being seen, this is peace, perhaps. But then the sun dips lower and the shadows win again. I know it won’t last. I take one last glimpse of it all, three deep breaths, and retreat, echoing the sun’s path as I drop down.

(100)

1.

The clouds are a grey duvet over the fields. An unbroken cover that we all hide under, like it or not. Except: there! A flash of blue breaks through. Blink and you might miss it. But it happened, I swear. The tiniest promise that clear sky still exists; that these clouds aren’t the end of the story. Is that enough? Feel the whisper from the sun’s rays in that moment: “I’m coming back for you, I haven’t forgotten.” Can you believe it? Another glimpse, another promise. A while later, another. And tomorrow, the joyous return of that wild, blue expanse.

(100)