writing and love

This whole housemate finding experience is a lot more disconcerting that I had ever imagined it would be. I’ve been on both sides of the coin: potential housemate and housemate-ee. Everything matters. From the music you’re into, to the way you dress, to what you do for a crust. All this makes me uncomfortable because it doesn’t matter. It goes beyond all that. It’s like inviting someone into your family. You’ll see them day and night, love them, and maybe their small quirks will annoy you at times. But you’ll still wake up the next day under the same roof. 

People are not cattle. They aren’t a new waffle maker at Big W. You can’t just shop around and expect people to feel nothing.

In other news, how about all this rainy weather? On and off, on and off, like God’s bored in a room and flipping a switch. It’s nice, in a way. Melancholic and all types of inner calm. 

Sunday night is especially silent. People on the tram at 8 pm are quiet, wordless. Almost as if bedtime begins on public transport. It’s cosy hot chocolate weather. It’s weather for lovingly cooked meals, writing, and love.

P.S. I got my little porcelain bird necklace. It is adorable and I am devoted. And crosshatching teacups and saucers are just so appropriate for this house.


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