What an honoured life I have, to have reached a point I never thought I could get to, where my excitement for the future exceeds even my highest expectations. Terrifying, and gratifying: the rhythmic motion of my heart.
Our flat is empty in a way that soaks into my bones. It echoes the sounds of birds and cars and dogs on leads and families with buggies and hot air through our windows. Every room seems to absorb the sun, no matter the time of day. It meanders slowly across the sky until late at night. Some of that is the summer, but most of it is joy, which makes the light last so much longer.
There's a tranquillity I've never felt enclosed within those walls. I sit on the floor in silence and absorb it through the mesh of my skin and synthesise it. It's impressive, in a way, just how much the safety of home brings me into myself and makes me flower.
It's the simple things: walking to the shop, along the canal, the sound of the trains passing through, horn bleating. Unfurnished but so full.
And now, there's a daunting question ahead of me: will it always live up to this?
And if not, does it matter?
Is it enough just to have it now, to cradle it in my palms until the time runs out?
Moving out, I've freed myself from a lifetime of cramped spaces. This place fits me. The smell of paint like old laundry, keys on the sideboard, the sunlight on our copper-blushed walls. In time, my limbs will stretch and grow to fill this place like spidering roots. I'm only human; no space can hold me forever.
But for now, this one will do just fine.
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