Home. Still. Quiet. The traffic has ceased along with my daily sensory overload that I’ve only just noticed how much I struggle with.

Laying down on the carpet for hours, looking up to a ceiling of oranges, blues, greens, clotted cream yellows, all within one white wall.

Observational drawing feels like my only solace. I feel joy in looking in the corners and doorways of my home, finding angles, shapes and compositions that I have never noticed before, only passed by them daily. I am reminded how little I really look at my surroundings. They are too familiar.

Scratch Scratch Scratch. Pencil on paper. Pencil on board. Ideas come thick and fast. Paint: weird wet stuff that I have spent a life time trying to avoid.

I paint the emptiness of my home, the residue of one who has recently left forever, whom I now recognise was never really there in the first place. I try to re-find myself in my home, look for evidence that I am still here, that I exist.

A friend’s dog provides a warm body to stroke and I realise just how long I have been starved of any living contact. It was the drawings and paintings of my home, of me, that kept me connected, that made me feel like I still existed.

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