InsideMyHead

London is sleeping like me. Is it the weather? Is it the heat? What is this stillness in the air? ‘Writing or not writing?’ asks herself the author. My holiday is over. I am frozen between the slow life I’ve left behind and the fast rhythm awaiting for me at each corner. I am resisting, I’m not ready yet for the life I’ve left behind. My old life seems so remote at the moment. I want to protract the feeling of my holidays ad infinitum and keep it in my circulatory system; I want to hold on to the slow pace, the smell of fresh air and flowers. I’m not ready for choking, for the intoxicating pollution and the irritating allergies. I am not ready for work. I am not ready for anything. I want to climb inside a cocoon and spend winter there when it arrives, and make no mistakes, it will be here sooner than you think with the dark days and the grey sky, with the relentless rain and the slippery streets. Who wants to go out? Nobody does, we don’t. We pretend we are alive; we sta