Today's weather was strange. I was reading my book while waiting for the bus and when I looked up, the sky was perfectly clean and blue on one side, and on the other, the rain was beginning to fall. I blinked but the situation remained the same.

I don't know why I am writing this. I think it's because of the book I was reading, Emily Wilde's Encyclopedia of Faeries by Heather Fawcett. It's written first person, in the form of a journal about a woman who studies fairies academically in Cambridge, and it reminded me that I haven't written in my own journal for a while. 

What I mean to say is that the restlessness is growing in my bones again haha it never left, but now I feel as if my time is coming to fruition and I must, must make plans to leave. I have a little dream of travelling to the UK again, maybe Venice and Ravenna, a seed of a dream that is beginning to grow its leaves deep underground like magic, but which in fact, is life.

I have been sick the past week, with a cold and a cough and one thing I realised is that when I am sick I think of myself very often. Still, it has been nice to lie in bed and be very still and rest. I have an indolence in me that I have begun to entertain with a vengeance. Sometimes I barely want to move.

Went for a silent retreat the week before. Its been long overdue and it gave me a lot of clarity about my state, about how my responses to life had been defined by a single frozen moment, and now I am beginning to thaw. I think about Shakespeare's The Winter's Tale, which is one of my favourites for its dreamy fae quality, Time as a character entering and announcing the passing of sixteen years, a marble statue of the Queen Hermione, frozen in grief stirs and comes to life. It ends with a marriage, but the Queen-come-to-life never speaks. I wonder often about these figures in literature who come to life, Lazarus, the young man of Nain, and Galatea how do they learn to live when they were presumed dead? To come shockingly and vividly to subjecthood when they had been motionless objects on a plinth? Sometimes the act of bringing forth to life seems so violent, like a splash of paint on a blank canvas and I wonder if trees, after the winter, find it painful to melt into spring, as a numb leg does when it begins to feel.

Give me a month, I think, a month all to myself and I may begin to be live again.