october, xxvi.

The sea and the sky, permanently blue. A bowl of tangerines, a sort of a communal breakfast. Halves shared, juices dripping down. I nap in the sun afterwards. The stillness of my little town is soothing and in itself feels like a home. I try not to think about the impending list of things. I try to be conscious of my breathing. Later, they call me from Dubai and we make plans. There is something comforting about all of it.

Prague welcomes me back with a glorious orange sunset. I hang around my neighbourhood for hours, delaying my actual return home. Indian summer is still in the air. I keep Michael Kiwanuka’s Love & Hate on repeat. I hear a lot of Spanish from a group of six or seven people. The energy from their table bounces off me and I am jealous of them. Is that the word I am looking for?

The language reminds of me Chapeau Rouge and Roxy and the short-lived stories of my life. Some of them still linger around, like an afterthought and I am too comfortable to stop revisiting them. I think of us and how we’ll measure time in decades instead of minutes. I take comfort in this even though I shouldn’t count on the future. I should know that much.

Comfort. What you seek is seeking you.