nov

November is more gray than I remember her. The wind is pulling the leaves of the trees, the raindrops are racing down the windows, and everyone is glued to their phone on the bus home. I took the train to paris last week, and spent one night in the city of light. Danced with tears in my eyes, walked till my feet hurt from blisters, giggled at the metro and finally got to enjoy some good coffee.

The days since I've been home has felt a bit like the last pickle in the jars' resist of getting captured. Cold toes, two outfits on rotation, the occasional sharp sunlight exposing an apartment that could use a round with the hoover. Loss of a family member I've known my whole life, and I've gone to bed very drunk a couple of nights in a row since I heard.

November has been good to me. I have opened my heart a bit more, and cried more than I realised I needed. Just a couple of more weeks, and I'll be poaching pears, crunching on peppernuts, driving around to christmas music. I can't wait for low hanging branches, covered in snow. I can't wait for zeldas headbutts early in the morning. I can't wait to go home for christmas.