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There’s always that sense of not-being at play. Amidst the chirps of friends, amongst the pile of collected notes on the desk. This not being feeling hangs around, like smells of stale wine and smoke clouds. You clear your desk, paint your room, but the sense lingers on, revealing itself at times like a cobweb in the sun. When you are lost in your storybook pages, you are drowsy, your glasses hanging to the edge, your tea growing cold, the music you are playing seems distant this feeling of not-being springs from nowhere.
It is there in the smoky moments of bliss and in the crunching autumn leaved walks. It is just there. It makes the full moon a loner in the sky, the November trees barer and You further.