Here’s something weird: I lately can’t find a place in my house that feels comfortable for writing. I have a whole office upstairs - second biggest room in the house - but I haven’t been able to station myself there for some time. I may have let it get too messy, and I’m not up for the nine million little decisions about what to keep, what to throw away, what to put where, before that space feels clean and clear for me, mentally.
I keep bouncing between the kitchen table, the living room, the den (there’s a fireplace in there, so I go there on the super coldest days and burn some wood).
(I’m making the house sound way bigger and fancier than it is. It’s neither big nor fancy. Very simple and kinda boho.)
Today I’m at the Kitchen table. It feels kind of okay - but kind of cold and lonely. it makes no sense, though, for one spot to feel more lonely than another, because wherever I am in the house during the day, there is no one else here with me.
The coziest, I think, is the den. Tomorrow I might bounce back there.
