I tidied my room today. dusted the surfaces. the vases. the lamps. I repurposed the shelving unit in the laundry storing washing detergent and re-homed my books. I dusted those too. shimmied the receipt-turned-bookmarks back into their middles. physical homages reminding me I’d loved something so much I’d wanted to consume it twice. I made my plants play musical corners. knelt down on all fours and slid them across different sides of the room. spun their pots round til they met their new sweet spots. I stood back and assessed. nodded to myself and vowed to dust their leaves tomorrow. in this time I made three teas. drank two and a half. poured fresh water into the diffuser Amelia gifted me when she moved interstate. I think of her every time I use it. everyday. it is perhaps the first time in my adult life I have cleaned in silence. and perhaps the first time in a long time that my mind has bred comfort from this. I had early dinner and made it back to my room with enough time to watch the sunset. to make another tea. chamomile. I boiled the kettle and ran up the stairs. thought back to the last sunset I could remember. it was last year. I had searched ‘songs to cry too’ on Spotify and was terrified of my own thoughts. to be left alone with them. I couldn’t cry. that was three months ago. twelve weeks. each bringing with it a different version of discomfort. in different shapes and sizes. each bringing with it my hand to the cord to raise the blind a little higher.
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