Humid rainfall seeping through the windows and Radiohead, my room (right now) reflects my mood. My brains running fast but my eyes and body feel like a melancholy night. Curtains half closed- bleak light blue light coming through, other half is a dark mellow orange... candles and mushroom lights.
I was laying down before, hair wet on my elevated pillows and flashing disco-high-ball reflecting blue/red/yellow on my dark walls.. listening to movements in the kitchen as my mum prepares dinner.. the soft smell of jasmine rice entering through my door and hearing the raw vegetables being cut on the board. Thom Yorke whining about sardines...
A voice stopped me in my day-dreaming tracks this morning on the bus. It sounded familiar, ticked a memory from the depths.. wasn't he meant to be overseas? In America none the less?
Closer eavesdropping reassured me it wasn't him, but a sick, guilty feeling dripped over me...
The main character in my book was being confronted by a 13 year old girl. She told him that all he did was hurt people. He realised he never connected to people because in the end, all they felt was pain.

I like running and hiding.

Been taught, unconditionally and inescapable, to fear trust. 

I have to go dry my hair now.