My eyes feel funny, like things aren’t as clear as they could be. Like words can appear sharper and I’ve been staring at things so closely they’ve lost their shape. I need to make sure my eyes are working properly by looking at something wider and bigger than what my eyes can take in- somewhere without walls and rectangles.
The great crashing of the ocean is enough to instil fear. But from up here on these weathered rocks, I feel safe. I bend my head to write and then turn back again to look, and the yellow hues have sunken a little lower between grey and blue. Clouds are golden speckled and I see that sunlight actually shines in linear streams. What a shame it is that the sky does not match the same sky in the photo. Nothing will capture that purple.
Seriously though, the pictures pale in comparison.
This keeps happening. I keep doing things that are meant for people half my age. I want to eat from the children’s menu, I want to drink the kid’s size coffee-free expreski, I want to go to the animal farm and I want to blow bubbles.
I felt depressed thinking that I had spent half my day half-sleeping and listening to music that I didn’t even choose. It was almost as if my body was too weak to move, eyes too dull to see. The heat was lulling me to sleep and even when I was awake I felt dull dull dull.
Animal farms love me. I accomplished the goal of picking up rabbits and guinea pigs, and that was a very difficult challenge indeed. The brown ones reminded me of dirty rats and I didn’t really want to touch them even when they were the easiest to ‘capture’. Some had red eyes and I was thinking how creepy it’d be if they only glinted red at times, like when they’re running into a corner and you catch their eyes in the sun.
Sheep with heavy wool shrouding their heads look like they’re from the 18th century. They look like a bunch of Mozarts who haven’t washed their wigs.
We had a Valentine’s Day dinner with a few candles with wicks almost too short to be lit, almost completely submerged in wax.
Special Fried Rice again
along with lamb chops, salad (I think I hate French Parsley)
risotto from the packet tweaked with wine, rosemary, leftover chicken
fizzy apple juice that looked like beer.
It wasn’t so bad but it wasn’t spectacular. I wish it didn’t take much for me to feel spectacular.
I do this thing where everything I write sounds cynical and I describe every time as a crappy time, which turns out mildly entertaining for me to read.
From Sobe to Sobe to remember xx
And yes, I’m trying to be punny with the name of this post.