It’s a Tuesday and we’re three teas down.
We’re in the last legs, people. Two months. The downward spiral, the bit where I stop panicking about flower arrangements and start fussing about my new signature.
It’s cold at the moment, the mornings painful with chill, the evenings just as tight. I wore a scarf to work the other day, and contemplated perhaps bringing mittens in. It’s the motionless nature of my job. Sitting at the computer, tapping away while my bones slowly and surely clench up in the icy air. I adore winter, despite the inconsistency, the slap of cold wind, the sly fingers of ice that sit obnoxiously on my car windscreen every morning. My mind is at its best in winter. It kind of wakes up, rises, broils over with creativity again. Maybe it’s something to do with comfort; with the fact that I can curl up on the couch and sip tea without exerting a sweat, such is the humidity of summertime in Australia. Perhaps it’s lighting up the fire, watching the flames dance. I couldn’t tell you. All I know is that when it is cold, something inside of me quietly becomes alive again. I write best when it’s cold. Strange how the most numbing of seasons will make me feel the most.
I’ve finished another book, which sets me at having read nine this year. My goal was to read one novel a month. It’s currently only May, and being the overachiever I am, that pleases me greatly. As a recommendation, The Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides is a phenomenal one (if you’re into a bit of suspenseful mystery). I listened to it on Audible and had to rewind multiple times to really absorb the plot twist. That’s when you know it’s good.
In other news, I can’t stop listening to piano sonatas and drinking chai tea.