Lately I’ve been peering into my fridge, perplexed at what to eat. I go to the store to pick up supplies, and I aimlessly wander up and down the aisles, hoping the glimpse of something will light a spark and help me make a decision. I can’t seem to settle on something that I want, so instead I opt for something easy. Dips. Deli items. Bread. Salad. Anything I can assemble without turning on the cooker. This is both practical (on account of the heat) but also indicative of my lacklustre state. I am clearly not myself. I blame the heat. It seems like a lame excuse, but it seems like the only logical reason that I’ve felt so strange. Like I’m in a dream, watching myself from above instead of living in my own body. I’ve spent the past few days locked in my flat, feeling exhausted, trying to sleep but not doing a good job of it.
On more than one occasion, I’ve found myself scrolling through @rudyjude’s Instagram feed. Here I daydream about living her life. Her scorched wood cabin and the outdoor bath, where a projector plays old films. The retro trailer she renovated in homespun fabrics. I imagine the plot of land I’d grow vegetables on. The Sunday ritual of grabbing whatever’s in the garden and deciding what to cook. A walk through the woods and a solo swim. Grabbing coffee in town, bumping into friends and inviting them back for dinner. I daydream about sitting out on the deck as the sun is setting, the pink sky, the full moon hanging between the trees, a glass of something strong.
Food doesn’t taste as good after this daydream. The kitchen feels smaller. The noises are louder. The air more stifling. The city less enticing. I forget why I fell in love with the place, and I spend hours wondering where I belong. I eat out, endlessly tapping my card for unmemorable meals. A few memorable ones, too. Am I tired of the city? Is it the heat? For some reason I want to cry and it’s not because I feel lonely or because I don’t know what I’m doing, but because I hate when the food doesn’t taste as good, when I don’t care about what I’m eating, when I don’t want to cook in my kitchen, when the answer isn’t a plate of pasta or a bowl of rice. Ok. Maybe I am a little lonely. Missing sharing a life with someone. Missing that someone. Missing past lives. Wanting more, but not quite knowing what more is.
The irony is that there was a time I lived a life not too dissimilar to the one I spend time scrolling through on my phone. Although, back then, I was too sad to appreciate it; too caught up in how others perceived me, my lack of purpose, my lack of ambition. I was at my peak of Cool Girl fever – where I was faced with them in real life – the girls who I longed to be. It’s been six years, and sometimes I still feel this. Beholden to the cool girl complex – one which elevates normal people into flawless idols, intimidating us mere mortals even though we’re the ones projecting godliness onto them.
I suppose it comes down to the question: what do you want? I’ve suddenly found myself without an answer, when not too long ago I was so sure.
so powerful! thanks for writing this ❣️ you're not alone on this boat. sending lots of love and warmth and open air your way!