where do you go to feel at home again?

i'm 2 lambruscos in

ossington in the summer. the girl with big headphones reading a book on the porch steps. the girl with big headphones carrying a big tote bag. what always seems to be the Toronto uniform. is anyone actually going anywhere, though? a girl with a leather purse and her boyfriend lean up against the coffee shop wall. she leans in, he looks disinterested. or maybe that’s just my perception.

lambrusco in the spring always makes me happy.

the life of a writer means that you will always feel perpetually out of place. watching, but never wanting to fully participate. it’s as if, by participating - you will lose something.

but who will record this moment? i ask no one. i’m constantly watching, constantly feeling, but it never feels like i’m living. is that dark? or maybe it’s that i feel as though i am living a life that is different to everyone else.

there is something magic about lambrusco. i can write that with full confidence. it is my favourite shade of red, and has bubbles so it feels like i am celebrating.

the city is interesting. Toronto is different to Rome because it always seems like people give themselves less permission to be interesting. i know that sounds harsh, but i think it must be some sort of symptom of capitalism. and to be honest, i don’t even know what capitalism fully entails - so can i even give myself permission to speak on this matter? probably not. i will stop saying things that are divisive.

i want to be free. and the only times it feels like i am free is when i sit in my corner spot, glass of wine in hand, and write to you. this is where i give myself permission to be interesting, to disappear.

i want to live a life of beauty. i want to spend time on my skin. on my morning makeup. the slow life. listening to the coffee machine as it brews. listening to the complete silence of my apartment. for it to always feel like a sunday morning, a sunday afternoon, a sunday evening. this is, now, i believe, the closest i will get to heaven.

i am on my last few sips. and i realize, i have a final ask.

who are we, if we are not fully ourselves? if we don’t allow each other to be ourselves?

to be loved, is to be understood.

and i am trying.