A Journal To A Lonely Heart

Chapter One

I feel the skin of my palms, like the surface of my heart as I touched the chilled windowpane early this May. I find it hard to believe that despite the weather report stating that England's going to have a warm climates this summer, I would unconsciously take my fleece jacket and shudder as the wind blows across my face. The only time that I feel warm is when I have my few steps inside my workplace, hear the hand-over and move into a blur, the demands of a twelve hour job that demands few tea breaks and more breathless and manual interceptions.

I would get uneasy, going out in a lazy twenty-four hour day off is like a chore. I would rather stay on bed or on the couch, listen to myself breathe while I thumb my phone, reading people in social media on how they write which keeps me-- writing. That to me is activity enough. Yet in-between those lazy hours, I would find myself imagine a whole world. A world that is entirely different.

I would engage myself into stories. Of foreign lands that has unique and unexpected beauty. The dangers and perils that are enclosed within every vine and every wall. The mysterious that are kept between the looms and fabric of another person's cloth. The undeniable taste of history through food and books, textiles and religion. The rush and feel of the breeze and bodies of water. The exquisite aromas of spices that lingers the air. And the touch of otherworldly suns and galaxies that are a paramour to all beguiled spirits.

It feels as if for a moment I have escaped. This sheer solace. This bliss. That my spirit has lifted into this new found love, that I can almost hold it tangibly with my two hands. My fingers stroking each tendrils as it pierces the very sensation that is dull and lifeless and dormant within me. That I can feel the sun once more, the glorious feeling of that warmth that thaws the ice that is that holds me. Then...

I am pulled back to reality.

It is now 21:10 on my clock. My mind dictating my body that I should shut the fantasies, lock them in my box and think about tomorrow. The dull real me, underneath the formless and automatic.