“The truth is that everyone is bored, and devotes himself to cultivating habits.”
― Albert Camus, The Plague
i lied down and stared at the sky. for a second, i thought if i reach out my hand, i could grab it.
i thought my cat was under the bed, scratching. when i got on my hands and knees, it was empty. my anger an imposter.
something smelled nice. like a shaved pencil, crumbled lead colours, uncreased paper. like hope.
i listened to rain sounds. a sunset outside. purple, pink, orange. wisps of clouds surfing the sky.
i think it’s going to be okay. even if i don’t make lists. everything will get undone anyway. i’ll save the pencils and pens for drawing. or writing this journal. no one is going to see either of them, anyway.
how is your lock down going? have you discovered anything?