I wake up feeling rested. This morning, I choose to write despite the desire to work out. Writing should win every morning, because it’s the best time for the brain.
The black chalkboard sparks creativity with a mundane shopping list. Utilitarian yet surprisingly satisfying to write on the load-bearing wall. Does this bring me back to childhood, before the introduction of white-board or transparency projectors?
Creative juice flows, and here I sit on a wooden table supported by two metallic trestle legs. To my right, the big window opens to a set of luscious leaves. In front of me sits two sets of potted plants from thoughtful friends. Straight ahead lies the balcony, and the end unit faces no specific unit except a red brick wall. To the left, I see the sparkly kitchen counter and the sunburst mirror that must be hung up soon. I see a friend’s writing on the chalkboard, “S was here and she loved it”
I’ve just caught up on the past 12 days. Not the best writing I’ve done, but done and caught up I am after being homeless for four months.