i feel better when i’m thinking of words.
i feel better when i don’t social media.
i feel better in front of the fire pit as long as the smoke is blowing away from me.
The cherry tree didn’t blossom for the first time in the ten years we’ve been living here. Usually there is one weekend where the flowers rain down in a perpetual delicate sprinkle. Cars drive by and they woosh to the sides, caught in the lip of the sidewalk. Then small children walking by or new lovers coming home can scoop up giant handfuls of blooms and throw them over one another. The flowers are so light yet so dense, it’s like being in a sweet-smelling warm flurry of magical romance. It at once carries you away.