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The snow, (unless it decides to make the rare march appearance,) is gone for good. I am sitting with a cup of coffee and a blanket, in my cheap IKEA lounge chair, I wish wasn't so small. But I'm endlessly thankful that I have the space for it, and for my dining table, coffee machine, rice cooker, and fridge with a freezer. I'm trying to not regret how many of the many snow days I've spend sheltered inside. It's been beautiful in Denmark. But beauty has mostly been gleaned from my kitchen window. I have a migraine, that I can't quite manage to rid myself of. So, my days are dark, not metaphorically, but literally, dark. I've put away my devices with screens. Done my schoolwork like the year is 1970, on big sheets of graph paper, corroding many pencils. And cooked big meals in candlelight when my ceiling light fused out. It's been a quiet and slow way of existing, and I've enjoyed those aspects of it, immensely. On the days where my health is better, I'm bored and upset that I can't engage in those things online that bring me joy. I throw a fit at myself. I don't want to read. I don't want to draw. My hand hurts from handwriting. I Just want to watch people play Minecraft and I want to code. When I'm done internally yelling, I make myself a glass of tea and fill up my water bottle. I close the door to my bathroom, the only room completely devoid of light. And I imagine I'm floating on the endless dark blue, almost black, ocean. I make up stories to tell myself, as I close my eyes and lean my head back against the cabinet, clutching the warm glass of green tea.
Before the new year began, I made myself a reading list of 24 books I wanted to read this year. I have never had such a list before, but the times in my life where I've read the most, has been when the books have been chosen for me — so, school. As of this post, I've read six. One in January, (Airframe by Michael Crichton,) five in February (The Color of Water by James McBride, Rosemary's Baby by Ira Levin, A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, & The Fire Next Time by James Baldwin.) I doubt that I'll keep up this pace. I have hopes of getting myself a new loom this year. My current one is missing a gear-thing, that doesn't have a technical name but is a part of holding the weaving taunt. It's a bit of a pain. I also want to play more video games. My friends and I have yet to beat Peak. And there are many indie-horror games on my to-be-played-list, that I promised friends I would play. Sadly, right now my head hurts miserably and any sensory input is too much.
I hope that wherever and whenever, you're reading this from, that you're well. Hopefully I've gotten the comment function on this post up and running. And you can tell me about your days and what books you're reading.
id="g1153" transform="translate(-144,-1416)"> With love, Solita
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