the soft scratch of crayon on paper, the sound of cornflakes sliding into a ceramic bowl, the whistle of the kettle, a pour, a gentle push, and suddenly – coffee.
Is this the slow living Instagram talks about? Long days, drifting by, deliberately, like a never ending yawn, leaving a distant tightness in the chest. ⠀⠀⠀⠀
Isn’t this a strange kind of magic? To witness time stretching ahead, empty, endless, unknown.
The gift we thought we wanted. Nowhere to go. No one to see. Just time. How ordinary. How extraordinary. ⠀⠀
We pass hours thinking of people. The ones we love. The ones we miss. We wonder how they are. How they really are.
We have time now. So we call. We message. We listen. We drink them in. ⠀⠀
What a paradox this new reality is. ⠀⠀
Released from the trappings of fast living, by a virus that insists we stand still. Step back, slow down, stay inside, survive, it says. ⠀⠀
And so we sit. And we talk. And we read. And we grieve. That feeling, the distant tightness. That’s what it is. It’s grief. ⠀⠀⠀
It’s a strange kind, and takes many forms. Anticipatory. Open ended. A grief for ‘before’. ⠀⠀⠀
A waiting grief. For impact, for a conclusion, for a cure, for something. ⠀⠀
We have lost control. But maybe we needed to. And so here we are.
Everything has changed. ⠀
For good. For bad. Forever ♥
