one week gone.


A week gone and already moments start to bleed together and the borders of days become foggy. Yesterday I rode in a car through Leith and the new town and the old town and I kept wanting to ask the driver to stop—just stop. I want to look at this a little more; I want to see everything a little closer.

The skies are more forgiving. Blue and cloudless. Someone asks me if I’ve ever had a moment where I just knew as it was happening that I was going to remember it forever and I find a suitable answer and then keep all the unsuitable answers to myself. Someone gives me a cappuccino with a little heart drawn on it. The flowers from my landlord bloom and wilt in the span of three days. I get a phone; I get shampoo; I listen to quiet music walking towards a castle I haven’t yet found the guts to go and really look at.

My street is lined with tiny, shoebox thrift stores, twenty or more in a mile stretch. I go in all of them and look around like I might buy something. Yesterday I went and got my nails done and the girl next to me talked the whole time with the sort of reckless stranger abandon one never finds in New York. Someone on the street tells me they like my tunic and then touches it and then asks me where I got it. My mother sends me photographs of my cat and my dad sends me an email I almost can’t read, that’s how lovely it is.

The city is old and winding and all roads somehow lead me back to my little flat, with my cramped little stairs and all this mail I keep getting addressed to other people. I write at night at my kitchen table with all the lights turned off and something I keep thinking, something I keep repeating to myself, is why does everything seem so perfectly reasonable. And where is this terror about to sink in and where is the panic, and where is the wild, sweeping rush of impossibility. The lack of these things is unnerving; the lack of unnerving things is more unnerving still.

Then in the mornings I write emails on the corner and the café changes and moves around me and I stay put, drinking a coffee as slowly as I can manage. And then I walk a lot and then sometimes just stop, sometimes just stand. And in every corner of my brain there is a soft sort of loneliness but it is welcome.

It is the type that stays just still enough to be kind.



find all weekly travel updates here.


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