Last night featured the best sunset I’ve seen in what felt like forever. Burning red and smudged across black fields like paint, like in those books I used to read as a child. I caught glimpses of it through the farmhouse, twisting and craning through trees and behind outhouses. A part of me is selfishly sad that they’re leaving that place, because I was growing fond of the evening turkey calls and

I’ve longed for sheer maxi dresses, flat whites and hotter climates after reading The Londoner. Of golden sunshine, road trips into great valleys of mountains, whale spotting, hiking, berry-picking, apple pies, planning end-of-year events (bonfire night, new year, Christmas, birthdays etc).

Saturday morning and my urge for adventure sits timidly, it knows the weekend is short and we are without card. Driving will irritate me after the three hundred miles I do each week. Train track seem miles out of way. I am bustled and shouldered into routine because life moves too fast and the hours are steady and unforgiving. In a perfect world I would be happy to do 20k on my exercise bike, look up holidays, make a wish list on She In, water the plants, change the bed sheets, do our weekly shop and look quietly forward to the week ahead. But my soul cries and I can feel it thumping at my chest. There's a lump in my throat and I'm quiet whilst my mind is racing. I fill the cracks that have appeared with material things, screen shotting, mesmerised with things that will make me feel good. Better. 

In sunset drives home last night, I dreamt about a blush nude dress, deep plunge and spaghetti straps. I dreamt about my end goal and how the lines were small and flat. I dreamt of golden shoulders and flowing loose curls. To get there I'm not sure how much of this living I can continue; I'm torn between two loves and one always wins on these long hard days. I wish more than anything that I had more time.

It's 10.36 and breakfast finds us deep in the gardens of Essex. I watch flowers in full bloom against a cloudless sky and try to push away the blackness that consumes me. The sun beats on my back and there is a crisp Autumn breeze, this is exactly how fall is supposed to be but I struggle to appreciate living. The sun is bright and hot but i can't look at it properly like my eyes haven't adjusted to seeing the light yet. I want to soak in each moment of glorious heat but there's a cloud over me that is so heavy I need to keep taking deep breaths to carry it. I feel unjustified loathing for everything and when I talk, the words come out thick and jagged, like chewing on bitter toffee. I realise that I am only really ever half-present, which might explain my bad long term memory.

Evening has crept around and I have a phone full of music that I am excited to road test. A part of me is relieved this brings joy, because I'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be excited for anything at all. I beckon the night to come as though it will distract from my own blackness hanging over me. I'm hoping desperately that we will see Solace tonight so I can escape existing for a few hours. Mussels and home made breads from Ask wouldn't be all that terrible either. Maybe a large glass of wine too. I catch cynical glimpses of myself wondering if this is how alcoholism starts. 

I followed Angela Blick's blog for a while and marvelled over the incredible photography. When you read the proper words and don't just see the images on Instagram, it feels a bit better (plane delays and getting sweaty). There's still a permenant lump in my throat as I hear Pete play GTA (after just watching Joe's match). He wants to watch X Factor tonight, so said if anything it'll be the 21.10 screening of Solace. My throat tightens for independence between now and then, for an evening beach walk (if I knew the way). 


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