Today I went to the library to write, a new library, which I like much better than my local one. This new one has many staircases and little nooks with desks and comfortable chairs, and windows with trees and light on the other side, and a fireplace. And it was quiet. I wrote so well. I’m working on a story that has a teenage boy as the protagonist and I love him so much, I love the story so much.
When I came home I Skyped with my friend who is in her ninth week of traveling around Europe. She was in a hostel in the French Alps, and her face was very pixelated but she was there, my oldest friend, and we talked for so long. We email each other several times a day most days, but absolutely nothing can replace seeing a face in motion, hearing the voice. I get so wrapped up in reading her emails and her stories that I forget how much her absence is affecting me here, back home.
As she plans out her Amsterdam visit, I tell her how my new favourite thing is climbing into bed after Coronation Street to read until bedtime, and I laugh at how homely and boring that sounds. She sighs and says she kind of envies me.
PS The entry title is from this song, which has been in my head all day, as I walked under trees, as I rode the streetcar, as I made tea.