A morning run; a promise kept. The world, in these silent times, is different. Resurgent, perhaps?
More time passes in lockdown. I become all-too-familiar with the world around me. I break it up, where I can, with exercise.
In the war against time, our only ally is our slowly-faltering body. But in aiding the body, we can also aid the mind, building defences against both time, and our own lives.
I watch the quiet recharge, observing myself from a distance, even as I game. A weekend passes. I’m better for it.
Travel. Before the journey, comes the preparation. A time spent in the canyons of the mind, circling at the mercy of doubt.
A short story, a message to myself, found again by accident. Written a year ago. It is a message of hope, written in an uncertain time.
The second weekend of February. Clothed in red and white, it is a pretender. It claims to be the herald of romance, but it is not. It is, instead, the harbinger of emotional torture.
On reaching a milestone, today, I share the briefest of notes. How I got here, and what it means. Half a year of sobriety.
Thinking about the give we all need to have. The ability to bend inwards. The abiltiy to think about our identitiy.