Some days are infinitely long. Minutes drag on, clocks stand still, and time turns into thick, slimy soup. Other days turn into months gone by between heartbeats. Time is relative. We've known since Einstein. And regardless of how hard we try to stay occupied and distracted, we haven't yet managed to enslave its passing. 

Days are slow when I'm bored, fast when I'm having fun (interestingly, this often flips upside down retrospectively). We've all experienced it; nothing new about that. 

But what I've realised lately is this: 

And this august was a never-ending story. 



I've been feeling pretty nostalgic the last few months, remembering my first year in Vienna. So many blissful moments and exciting experiences. I grew so much back then, felt so rooted in myself. Now I'm back home, feeling less at home than I ever have. Doing things, being things, but feeling off, off, off.

No, I don't regret going back home. And yes, I'm probably painting Vienna in undeservingly rosy colours as I reminisce. Still, there's a strong pull turning days into months. Places I miss, people I miss, a youthful free fuck-it-all kind of mindset. I feel so old and adult-like now. 

Dreaming, resisting, longing. And doing the best I can to keep dancing through these rainy windy days.

I miss you.