Always, I now notice, my mind thinks as if I am writing. A product of penning a blog for five years maybe, but my thoughts run much like they appear here. Stream of consciousness style.
I finished reading Cheryl Strayed's 'Wild' which was...pretty impressive. Not least for what she did (walk 1000 miles alone) but also for her ability to write it. Parts of that book were so uncomfortable to read that I had to look away. And parts made me cry out loud, like something had hurt me. And now I am torn about whether to rush off and watch the film, or leave it in my mind's eye, but with Reece Witherspoon's face. Not to mention the fact that it makes me want to walk a really long way.
The good news is that these literary pursuits have taken my mind away from the endless existential angst that was overwhelming me and instead I have gained my peace of mind again. Life seems more enriched now; now that there is something on the horizon that I can grasp. What I have learnt is that I am not that good at having a wide open road ahead of me. The idea of being all about books again is a comfort. Oddly.
And still the frippery. I ordered this ridiculously expensive (even in the sale) shearling gilet that I was convinced would fit into my world - just like Olivia Palermo's (homage here). But then it arrived and I realised that no, I was not in that market and no, it couldn't stay. I am in a phase where I want everything to be black. Is this a 40's thing? Suddenly black seems to be the answer to all dressing dilemmas.
Meanwhile the winter persists and the small mercy is that it is still vaguely light at 5pm now (woop woop). Will Spring ever come? Happy Tuesday.