Midnight sky

Today before leaving work, Lauren called out and the tiny smudge of light blue that stained the horizon. I jumped, baited breath, teasing disbelief at the black windows. It was there. Lightness in the midnight sky that slowly died into the trees. 

These nights are getting shorted, and the length of January hasn't dragged on like previous years. One thing I treasure about work is its ability to fast forward to all the golden moments in life. February is near and with it comes plans for more adventures this year. I think we forget we are bound by contracts and money. That we are not limitless in time. I asked if we could go to New York near Christmas, absentmindedly forgetting that in two months we'll be packing our big bags and heading half way across the planet. Speaking of which, the thought that there is one year left gives me butterflies both good and bad. Good because my bones yearn for adventure; for open roads and sun kissed skies and blue oceans and farmers markets. But also bad because of everything I will leave behind for those two (tiny, in the grand scale of things) years. My family and my little home and these accumulated IKEA spare parts that have become my life. The thought of not going suffocates me more than everything I will leave behind. 

On smaller sidelines, I am obsessing helplessly over Sia's Elastic Heart. I first watched it in the cold darkness of our living room as Pete was working on the hot tub and using the lamp. It blinded me. Just like the first video, Chandelier, it gave me this unsurpassable urge to dance - in the long dark empty wooden space of a dance hall. I've replaced it with driving fast and dreaming of diving into deep swathes of water. I hunger for deep waters to swim, to dive freely and swim against tough tides with my goggles and music. When will they create a waterproof sound system for swimmers? 

I dream of smoked salmon lunches, crystal blue sea and white sandy dunes to dive off boats, braided hair, good films, loud music and deep berry lips. 

I've been having strange, vivid dreams for a while now. Waking inbetween pillows and dark towns. So has Pete, and we lie closed-eyed telling stories of our dreams that, as we speak them, roll out into laughter at how silly they are. Curious how dreams seem so plausible when we are stuck in them. It makes the Matrix theory appealing - that we believe what we believe only because we don't question to believe it. But I have always been guilty of overthinking: And as I stand here, pausing to stir the peppers and turn the pork, life just seems about right. 


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