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   In truth I write still. Every morning, on the kitchen table, once I ensure that I am alone in the house. It turns out that this temporary immigration did suit me in the least but I have been making the most of it, or at least the most that I think I can make of it. After months of heavy rain the clouds have blissfully parted and I can feel the sun on my skin. Around me it really looks like spring, the incessant fall of rain encouraged the local flora to grow at a maddening pace. I imagine that by the middle of the summer it will have all dried up and resolved it self into the muted yellow colour that I encountered when I moved here. It should be alright.

  All this time I have been waiting for the nearing of the end, the time where this self-imposed exile will finish. I even set a reminder on my phone for it, in case I grew too accustomed, too complacent. I did it in the first few weeks when there was hardly any privacy for one to cry. This house still does not feel like my private space but at the very least there are hours in which all is good. I am alone. And now the deadline is drawing closer, just a few more months and I look at it with some confusion. For I am still unsure what I will do after I leave and everyone has questions and I have questions too but I would like to feel that just this once it ok to not have answers, to not have a plan that I felt was so necessary all my life.

  It dawned on me that I have forgotten how to be idle. There is always a clock somewhere, or a screen, something to which my mind inevitably gets glued to. And so time passes, and I stuck watching, waiting, for who, for what I know not. But all this immobility has made a bit more aware and awareness brings stillness and it doesn't feel the same as being un-moving. 

  There is no plan, just a vague sense that something might follow or nothing might follow. I would like to stay idle for some time, after I leave. And I think I would like to go to the countryside for some time. It will be nice if I get to go to the countryside with him, but I am also considering just going down to the village of my childhood, in the little hut with the toilet separate from the house but with good proximity to the sea. In the summer the sun is unbearable and the food is quick simple and meant to be refreshing and there's little to do after the luncheon apart from taking a nap and reading, perhaps even studying a bit. 

  Last time we went we used to leave the door open, I have similar memories from a past that has long since turned into dust. The people of the place has died and with them part of the identity of the place as well.

  I find it odd that I long for those moments of stillness, for the absence of most things of my daily life, while at the same time I enjoy languorous pleasures, I aspire to certain power, certain independence. I have often been teased of being equally a person of the port and the salon as well. I want to be alone and also to my solitude. 

  I have become aware that contradicting character traits are not a bad thing.

  I