This morning I attempted to write at my brand new desk but was forced to move due to an unrelentingly lovely sunbeam hitting my desk. My eyes were squinting and I couldn’t see my screen clearly – the suns mission completed. I could tell all it wanted was to lure me out to bask within it’s warm, vitamin D soaked rays.
Instead, I cowarded away in the darkest part of the house consumed with fear of fine lines and premature aging. I began to walk into the bedroom to retreat to the bed when Jacob reminded me of the 5 piece kitchen table we have, of which I currently have 3 chairs to choose from. It dawned on me how strange it was to have multiple places to sit in the house, each actually offering some type of ergonomic advantage.
I’m so used to just sitting on – or rather living on the couch and now we don’t even have one. I ate on the couch, I wrote, cried, slept, fucked, existenialised on that couch. And although I don’t miss THAT couch – it was old and stained, with a broken leg that ended up being held up by a printer – I miss the feeling of having a place that I knew I could always go back to. It was like a real life save point where I could collect my thoughts and start again. A place that I knew inside and out, the lumps and bumps, the kinks and tricks of it all. I think that perfectly summarizes how I feel right now. I’m in a new house in a new suburb in a new city in a new state, and I have no couch or place to centre me.
I’m not naive, I know that a couch isn’t the glue in which holds me together; but right now I’m just drifting around not knowing what to do, or where to sit, or what the thing is that’s going to start making me feel some sort of normallacy again.