The beginning of summer. Without much fuss or celebration, winter clothes sneaked into the back of the closet and I sleep with the window open for the first time this year. Now that the novelty of self-assurance has waned, it’s a lot harder to keep up the creative momentum. It feels like I’m living a never-ending day. Hours, minutes or distinction between day and night have lost their meaning.
In the UK, lockdown starts to ease off and more people make plans, including myself and I find I’m crippled with the anxiety of being left out and not being called to gatherings. I’m scared that the new normal will be the same as the old normal so I pour my extra energy onto my plants and watch them respond to the warmer weather. I start running again.
The outrage with race inequality only grows and the tension is palpable in the air. Londoners take to the streets for the second weekend in a row, leaving eery images of masked faces chanting for the lives lost.
For me, it feels like the end of lockdown even as I impose stricter measures of self-isolation on myself for the next week or so.