This one’s of me, laying in bed, waiting for my mind to return to its body.
It always feels like this after a long day away. The kind where you remember to wash your face and change out of your PJs by five – only acknowledging your filth when you break from the computer, take off your glasses and rub your straining, dull eyes.
You pull away and feel the grease of the day, clinging to your crumb-crusted finger tips. Only then, will you consider putting water to face.
Then it’s 3:00 a.m. And you’re looking up at the ceiling, realizing you wasted an entire day, sometimes weeks worth of time, floating away from the ugliness of reality.
I started this job around last May. Those days felt bluer than I’ve ever encountered. Somehow, a year later, I’m still here and the air’s still speckled with the prettiest shade of cerulean.
Like laying on a bed with slats that have half slipped off the frame, but which you’re constantly too lazy to re-centre. As the weeks go by, more rows get wonky. Eventually, you’re sleeping on a pile of lump.
And that’s all fine. Because the fire’s less hot when you’re used to it’s inferno. When the heat gets unbearable, it shifts to a numb blue that no painting or Pantone catalogue could ever convey.
Beautiful, but dangerously addictive.