1 year of living in the same residence. It’s bittersweet but hazy. The same four walls, the same pitfalls. To what degree can a human life change? I find it interesting how much the view changes from the other side of the hill. Where it’s still.
My place is still like a landfill.
I mean — don’t freak out; it’s minimal and all. Duh. But there’s something about the fabric of the curtains, something about the unfinished art projects I put to the side, and keep there. Lately I’ve been working on more pieces, but it’s a steady growth. And that sums up my living in this space, this enclosure — with this vast area of breathing life around me. I am beginning to sound a bit too Romanticism-era (literature) which cracks me up because why not. I can keep my prose & manifest dreams or something of that nature.
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