I love a good balcony, with a street view up high and the cars whizzing past below. Or overlooking a beach with wine at sunset. Or crammed too close with all your favourite friends, elbows poking into each other, perfumes mingling and your own little sea of laughter to get lost in. I’ve only had one apartment with my own balcony, it was laughably tiny but big in the bliss it brought me. It was the epicentre of the parties I threw, a lazy but practical place to dry laundry and my favourite place to crawl when the sun peeked into it’s tiny corners. I’d wedge myself into it and fall asleep on the floor or listen to music and read books.
I remember one afternoon on that balcony, with a post party headache I skulked out there and re-read Miranda July´s book. I felt sad and alone, but content to be there by myself. And as for this balcony? A beautiful one in Barcelona I would love to call my own, but happy to have enjoyed it. Like so many experiences as of late, living them, enjoying them but none of them really feeling real enough to call my own. Ever feel like you are living but not consciously? I’ve feel like I’ve been floating through this week. Going about daily life but with my head elsewhere. Where that elsewhere is, I have no idea – but nothing feels sharp this week, the edges are blurred and my feelings are a grainy reflection of that. Incredibly vague, rather nonsensical..I know, so instead I’ll let these cheerful raspberry coloured sequins do the rest of the storytelling for me today.