Sunday, June 5
So...
Friday was my last day at work. I haven't done a single useful thing since. I'm strangely proud of that. It's Sunday morning and, for once, I feel like nothing wants anything from me.
You know the Sunday feeling. The low dread. Monday breathing on your neck. The list of everything you're supposed to be doing. Gone. I woke up when I woke up. I'll eat when I'm hungry. I'll go out when I feel like it — not because the good weather is guilt-tripping me off the sofa. It'll still be bright when I make dinner. It'll still be bright when the football starts. It isn't going anywhere. Neither am I.
I've moved at exactly my own speed all morning, and it feels almost indecent. Coffee I actually tasted. A shower with nowhere to be afterward. Cold air on warm skin. It's astonishing how luxurious ordinary things become when nobody's waiting for you.
Tonight it's Norway–Brazil. World Cup, round of sixteen. By 11 p.m. I'll have no dignity left, and the neighbours will hear all about it.
And, since I'm being honest, this letter exists because of you.
My little corner of Instagram got unexpectedly busy this past month. More of you started turning up, wanting more of this life than a photograph can hold. So... here's more.
This is the first letter.
Tell me where you are, and what you'd do today if nothing were allowed to be urgent.
Just hit reply. I read every email.
— M.