my quiet little life

Little Forest, 2018

Every morning, without fail, I wake up at 7:30AM and go through the same motions:

I blink at my window, at the sky. I blink until I am awake.

I make my bed, get into my slippers, drag my feet into my living room.

In the kitchen, I put on the kettle for some tea or turn on the espresso machine for a coffee.

Set that on my nightstand and I crack open my journal.

Early mornings pass with the sound of the birds or the early tram pushing by my window, almost empty. I love this quiet stillness, this slow pace of the world waking up. I write a page or two, gather my thoughts, whatever needs to escape my mind for it to feel at ease. I let it. Life won’t always be this quiet, so I let it. This is all mine anyway.

When life is quiet like this, and I feel a sense of calm when this happens, I am no longer chasing time. The clock ticks on and I still feel like I’m where I’m supposed to be. It’s different from feeling lonely, which is a complex feeling for me. Solitude is no negative space for me.

To be quiet doesn’t mean to lead a life alone. I have social circles that energise me, which I am grateful for every day. We don’t talk all the time, but when it’s important, we are there. I can walk up to their houses, they’re a short call away. I don’t have to eat alone or go to places alone. I can, if it makes me happy. I can change my mind, if I prefer the company. I can read alone and share my thoughts with them afterwards, over a drink. But this, in my eyes, completes my quiet life. It still feels full, without the perpetuated madness of what I used to know.

I write with candle light and a playlist in the background. Sometimes a film. Sometimes nothing at all. Where my mind wanders off and I don’t bother reaching out to hold it.

At the café, I never stopped the people-watching. I established this habit in London, where almost every day was spent at a pub, or in a bar, or out on Primrose hill, or at the café, catching up with my ongoing creative escapades outside of the office. This is how I peek into strangers’ lives without them knowing, without them feeling me, without them giving anything away to me, or receiving anything from me. They might effect me in some way, or not. They’re blips in time and so am I to them, if they notice me, and very randomly, we become acquaintances.

The river is a 15-20 minute walk away from my place. Sometimes I take the time to walk down there, and spend those minutes looking up and around. Taking in the moment and the surroundings. Sometimes I catch a lovely sunset. Rediscover the dying art of being present. It slows down my day for just a few sacred minutes, that feel like a gift to me when everything else is jammed up fever frenzy.

In the late nightly hours, I drift off to sleep in the middle of a book’s chapter, or a story being told to me on the YouTube app. My nightlight, the street lamp, turns off in the morning by itself. Because everything still happens while I am asleep.