i picked the bud of the stem off the top and thought about how when i was little i used to think that those buds were little fairy hats. i moved the knife neatly through the orange, pleased by how easily and softly it sliced. i placed them in a bowl and leaned back against the kitchen sink, before picking up the slices up one by one, examining the pores in their skin and the veins in their flesh. i was very calm but i didn’t notice it. i ate each slice, slowly, carefully, precisely. i watched the juice fall across my wrinkled palms, into my fingernails. with my teeth i ripped the orange’s flesh from it’s rind, and let the sweet, soft tang stimulate my tongue before adding the rind to my tidy stack. i thought of how i never eat like this; i’ve forgotten that eating can be an experience in itself. i’m so used to eating while working, writing, talking, walking, watching a film, reading a book, moving, doing, etc… and then i thought about how time is… i don’t remember. something about time, free time is most useful when it’s rare? no. it was something much more poetic than that. i’m now kicking myself for forgetting.
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it's worth saying that the only reason i wrote/published this is that now that i'm on my winter break, i think it would be cool if i tried to post frequently, kind of blog style, or just my everyday thoughts or whatever. i don't necessarily loved this and normally it would just remain in the huge mess of my 'drafts' who's existence i ignore. so.
this was such a joy to read!