thursday thoughts
morning pages from a suburban café
Do you ever feel like … I don’t know. Like it’s hard to take anything seriously because it doesn’t feel like it’s real? When the days are long, almost too long - and you have one foot here, but your mind is somewhere else.
People get worked up over nonsense, I’ve realized. The blessing of not speaking a language is that I can exist in my own world, without understanding the world and its conversations around me. And maybe that, as ignorant as it might sound - is the key to moving through the world freely and happily. Not understanding a single word, a single thing. The only words I understand is the narrative in my mind. I can press play or pause on that any time.
In my body, I feel like I might see him soon. To not understand the words around you, means that other senses need to be heightened. You need to be perceptive, to understand body language. You need to have a strong intuition. Maybe this is where it comes from.
My tarot reader told me that “pause” is a theme for me right now. My sister tells me my mom came to her in a dream and told her that we are going through a reset.
Today, the clouds cover the sun, so all you can see is white.
I’m writing to you from a cafe. It’s beautiful here, it really is. Bon Iver is playing, there’s a mix of both old and new furniture. Scones, breakfast pastries, pumpkin spice. People are meeting with friends, people are walking their dogs.
The cons of the narrative that plays in my mind is this: I can’t actually press pause.
The evenings have become my favourite. I watch the sunset from the roof of the loft. My friend texts me how beautiful it is, and it makes me happy that we’re finally watching the same sky. I ask my sister to make us a potion, which is just another word for tea, but she puts in special flowers and herbs and leaves and makes them different every night.
What do I miss? I ask myself. If everything we need is actually here.
My tarot reader tells me there is a “little” bit of time and space before I leave again. Is little an hour? A day? A week? Maybe two?
#311 is on the top of my receipt. 311 is engraved on to the nail of this coffee table. 3+2=5. 5 is the number of freedom, 5 is the number of change.
I sit alone in my black sweater, and watch the conversations take place at the picnic tables outside the window. They sip their coffee, they touch the arm of their friend. The glass divides us, I can’t hear or understand. But they look happy. That’s all that matters.