Disconcerting and beautiful.

Disconcerting and beautiful. Drawing Luke Hockley.

Disconcerting and beautiful. Drawing Luke Hockley.

Dear Self,

The days of the week have no meaning anymore.

It is strange and beautiful and disconcerting when that happens.

I’m on holiday.

Life is not being sorted in the way that it normally is.

This is that time of year where I can find it hard to hold onto the threads of myself.

I tend to let go of my early morning writing of this letter, letting it slip into later in the day and then later in the evening. Last night I completely forgot and got lost in a movie and making a pair of shorts and it was suddenly midnight.

I panicked.

Funny that. It’s only me that knows or cares whether I write this letter daily or not. But I have promised myself this, and until I decide to change that agreement I don’t like the feeling of not fulfilling that promise.

This morning I have woken up early and worked out what day it is (it’s a Sunday) and have sat down to write to you before the day gets underway.

Like normal.

It feels like it is time to come back to this thread.



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Day 1,118

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