I still have bad dreams, but it's funny how they are about a different kind of bad now. They are softer and more gentle and I am a malicious, screaming, hormonal, paranoid wreck. I am everything I never want to be; uncontrollable in every way. In wake, I am sick of control. Credit control, birth control, portion control. On my way home I catch the evening sun and I am chasing it across the last few miles of road. We have lived this way for over two years but I am still in such a mad rush to get home every night. Fields roll past at umpteen miles per hour but it's never fast enough, it is wasted space - wasted time - between us. And he is always so damn excited to see me that my heart swells.
We talk about Jamacia and repeatedly I think fuck it. Hope rumbles something in my belly that stopped stirring a while ago, the child of adventure that tugged at my legs for so long. My only thought, through the huge scales of these conversations is that babies don't sit so closely to the horizon anymore. I am silly for thinking they sit close now, for there is so much to do in the meantime. I have to keep telling myself to slow down.
I am obsessing over glossy gel nails and so in love with this new mauve colour. I wrangle my fingers, picturing them glittering and I catch myself before I fall. Payday waits on the horizon and I have money coming in early next month. It will feel so safe to have savings again. I dream about my wardrobe being laden with nudes and whites whilst my calfs are rubbed; I feel happiness catch me off guard and I try to commit these moments to memory. They say it's the small meaningless ones that really count, and I remind myself of my speckled face, cupped under the Grecian sun three years ago. Jesus, three years. I wonder what would have happened had I never captured the moment on camera, but stop myself before I panic about all the moments since that I might have lost. Slow down.
