I have been spending a lot of time in my head the last few weeks. Time is mine and I can shape it as I want to. I am conscious of this diary, of the self imposed need to write everyday, and this forces me to pay attention to my days and think about them. How have I been feeling? What have I done? Those questions sometimes spiral into deeper ones. Ones I rarely write about here because I need more time to process them.
I would like to cover both of my ears with my headphones, but I have tilted one side of it to better hear the world around. The siren of an ambulance resonates in the distance and I wonder who they are carrying. I hope they are safe. A runner passes by, their feet hammering at the ground. A squeaky bicycle soon follows them, the clicking of metal picked up by my microphone.
Today I remain in the business park of Willow House and Oak Buildings. I run up and down yellow painted stairs until I’m bored of them. I stop in a deserted parking lot bordering the motorway and pick up a rock. I lift it up and down, swing it left and right until the muscles in my arms hurt.
Then there are the words already known. Laranjas (oranges, oranges), their smell and taste accompanying every memory of Portugal I have. From the bitter face twitching unripped oranges, to the squishy, sweet, and sticky ones. They have taught me what an orange should taste like. I barely eat them in the UK anymore.
At the roundabout that will lead me to the duck pond near work, I see a cyclist wondering where to go. I envy their ability to ride. Before this run, I have joined the Cycle Touring Festival online. People have been sharing photos of their lockdown rides. They look happy.