This is something that happens.
I wake up one morning and instead of sipping my coffee with a slice of the BBC News, I sip it with a slice of toast. I reach the station and instead of scrolling up and down my Facebook wall tapping my foot at yet another delayed train, I stroll up and down the platform looking at strangers, imagining histories, secrets and favourite colours. I walk to the office, headphones and podcasts safely tucked in my handbag, listening to the hum of morning traffic. This is something that happens. I wake up one morning and for no apparent reason change a little thing, then another. Forty something days later I’m still online-free, social-media-free, current-affairs-free and feeling like I’m actually thinking real thoughts and seeing real specks of light. It happens.
I’ve been meaning to write. I have all these stories. I sit and look at them, play them over in my mind, change a word here and there, but that’s as far as I go. They remain floating above my keyboard, growing invisible roots and branches.
I think I’m just waiting for my thoughts to settle. Not long now.