It's almost done. Winter's done another round and nearly out of my way for the foreseeable future. 

I'm amazed at people, including myself, who can plan ahead. A few years ago, I couldn't look at an hour later into my life and today I'm accounting for plans over the Summer, or lack thereof. I don't know what I'm doing over the Summer so I should do it now. 

It's surreal how I'm focused on one area of my life, and in my experience, that's when shit blows up in my face in the most grand fashion ever. Last year, this time, I was thrilled to be dating, thrilled to be writing for a living and keeping my chin up. This year, I don't know if i'm going to have a job in the next six months and what will the nature of the job be, obviously know zilch about dating anyone and doing nothing about changing the status quo. 

Sometimes I wish I were running a vintage thrift store (not the kind you're thinking) but a curio store with beige interiors, minimal with accessories and posters as a part of the collection and a fat, sleepy cat snoring by the glass counter, against which I've stashed my most prized possession, button badges. I am so far away from that dream that it sounds like a lie even when I write about it. 

Lately, I've been seeing those posts a lot—you have what you were chasing five years ago, and true, I do. A diagnosed history of living with PTSD, a heart that's been broken so many times that I could be an influencer running that Japanese art of gold-filling broken pieces and selling you gold jewellery made from the pieces of my heart alone, a salary that is roughly the same that I was drawing (what a shame) five years ago and an overwhelming desire to change my whole existence, which is currently at an all-time high. 

I've not worked out in almost 5-6 days and I know I can feel better, just a bit, but I also know restarting sugar after 40 days has done a number. I'm already dreading the bloat and fat (and at this point, it's a fair assumption to say I'm probably on an ED-spectrum). What was once a theory is now a fact— I've lost my friends to my lifestyle—shutting inwards, quitting alcohol and being a recluse, which I know, doesn't show up but it also does. I'd rather run to a stranger's apartment to see a spare bedroom on 21st floor than check-in with a close friend and tell him I miss him. Instead, I find people have moved on, as always, all without me and I've made my peace with it. One Amazon book order at a time, one Nykaa nail paint at a time.