(COMPLETED)
Angelina knew the Amalfi Coast like the back of her hand. After all, she visited it twice a year. Harry Styles was sent there to film a music video.
Meeting in a pottery class wasn't expected, nor was the future they both built together.
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My body hasn't settled into the new chaotic routine.
After taking a needed nap on my way back to England, I couldn't go back to sleep once the day turned into a dark shade. Resisting my frustration, I had the idea of writing a memoir while I waited for my mind to acquire a familiarisation with the new time zone.
It was something simple, maybe a set of words looking to put down on a piece of paper all those things that I did in Los Angeles. However, it ended up what ignited the awful reaction on my body.
In the first few days of being home, I went out to have dinner with two friends. Sorting through boxes full of clothes, I found a pair of trousers that I hadn't worn before and that ended up covered in sick.
The unease air of discomfort was afflicted by the amount of time that I travelled back and forth to the other continent during such a short period of time; a phantom of conviction. As my sleep routine constantly changed, my body hadn't properly rested and I ended up with fatal dizziness in the middle of a conversation – while we waited for our food to be ready.
Certainly, I understand why it happened. The accumulation of reasons created a large pile of consequences and being ill was one of them.
The next day, at midday, I gave into another attempt of having something to eat. My appetite had just waned. Inexplicably, I couldn't point out what seemed to be the problem. The food that went down my throat, came back up again minutes later. And the pain wasn't in a specific area, more so of a general malaise.
Howbeit, the results were always the same. Through many tries, I kept finding myself sat in front of my toilet with my back rested on the tree coloured shelf. And, for once, there was something that I was expecting from this situation – the tears. It truly wasn't out of pain; it was because I hate the feeling of vomiting. And, fetching as much mouthwash from the cupboard as I could, I went back to bed.
So, for the next days, my body found a routine in rejecting food and accepting that my phantom of conviction was actually wrong. The remains of food with each passing day kept growing until it began to subside when the portions cooked got smaller.
