Never before has summer been such an interior time. A time of gazing longingly out of the windows at the world, the birds, the unfathomably-green grass, and wishing for just one day of thick clouds. A time of focus on our walls -- on accepting, finally, our containment, and finding joy in exploring what makes a home bright and calm and us.
A time, too, of delving into the real interior -- this has been a summer that has dropped us from the rooftop, and watched as the shards of smashed identity start to flicker with a little reflected light. We've been held up to the great magnifying glass and roasted by the questioning light. I've used the word 'authentic' more times than I've coated limbs in suncream.
And yet, in-between all this, in moments when I wasn't worried about spontaneously combusting from being just that hot, there have been such sweet, cool pleasures. Sampling the swimming pools of local apartments with friends. Sharing yoghurt loaded with tangy stewed apricots with Tilly for breakfast. Feeling the kicks of someone growing in the interior.