The last few weeks have been a daze , something feels a bit blurry. Time is moving slow in this sad spring, sporadic sunny warms days only just about break up the blocks of dull grey and rain. I always feel more despondent when the weather dissapoints me in Spain. Georgraphically sun here is guaranteed. And when it’s not, I sigh and wish I was living somewhere else. Paris mostly. France is that one boyfriend I’ll never get over. Nothing will ever compare to him and he even though he was difficult to manage, a little depressing at times – he was the most beautiful.
I even found myself deep in a real estate hole, looking at tiny apartments with grand fireplaces and Eiffel views, wondering how I can financially re-arrange my life for a home in Paris again. Dreaming about moving? It’s a fierce hobby. I spend a lot of time conjuring up the lives I could have in other places, Rome…Paris…maybe a train away to Madrid? And yet I have no idea when I will leave, perhaps not even this year or two years from now, or what about next month? I’m ridiculous and for now, still here in Barcelona, dreaming of other cities but mostly pining for the summer that should have arrived already. And we could aptly attribute a literary pathetic fallacy to my dating life too, both equally humdrum. Dating too seems to be a hobby but not one I’ve been enjoying this year.
I’m tired, tired of shaking lunatic men off with laughter, each first date more fruitless than the last. I have no idea. I’m confused, but not sad about it, just tired in the way I tend to feel when I have a morning of mundane errands to accomplish. Dating is about as thrilling as picking up my dry cleaning. I’m thinking about men I met earlier this year, who resurfaced like bruises and running from a certain man who has called me approx 68 times since our first date. Terrifying. But mostly when it comes to men, I’m busy with Dermot Kennedy, whose songs I’ve listened to on an almost worrying rota for months now. But when I say life feels blurry, what I mostly mean is I’ve retreated. Into books, a reignited obsession with Slim Aarons, the ebay conquest of acquiring the perfect vintage gold Chanel necklace, concocting salad dressings that add zest to an another bland vegan diet, slipping out for coffees on my own and eavesdropping on other people’s conversations.
I’m distracted by 20 open internet tabs on hotels in Capri, because suddenly I have this urge to go immediately (and by immediately, I mean as soon as some invoices get paid). I’m busy too with pinterest photos of the perfect vintage mules. And Alan Watts, whose words I’ve gotten confused, lost and then enlightened by over and over again. I’m grateful for the solitude I so comfortably back into and wrap around me like a blanket. There are so many things I love to do alone and I’ve been doing them all lately. And to conclude, I feel the need to draw more attention to this white dress, absoutely one of my favourites I’ve ever worn and in a beautiful, crumbling street of Born. It almost feels like Italy, or as Dermot Kennedy sings, a private corner of Roma.