Lemons (The Absence of)

Don’t you hate it when you don’t have lemons? When you’ve laid everything out, your tall glass of water, ready to work, fired up the expensive hi-fi, only to find the software needs updating, the Wi-Fi password changed weeks ago, and, naturally, you haven’t reconnected it yet. There’s a grim humour in it — this setup I invested in, a sound system I convinced myself was worth every penny, now just sitting here, gathering dust. And it hits me: it’s been a month since I even sat in this room, the one with the view of the sea — the view I tell myself I love so much, even though I haven’t looked at it in ages.

And maybe that’s the real irony. I’m surrounded by things I care about, or at least things I used to care about, and yet they’ve become museum pieces. The (lack of) lemons. The music. The view. These little things I always relied on to keep me steady. But possibly this isn’t some uplifting realization about “pressing play again.” Might it be just a reminder — the kind I can’t ignore — that I’m slipping. Because that’s how it goes, doesn't it? The slow fade of things I once loved into things I forget, one by one, until even the idea of caring feels unreachable.

So, have I learned anything? Have I figured out how to care for myself when the monster shows up again? Some days, yes. Some days, no. It’s never that simple. Sometimes, it’s about letting the lemons run out, feeling the emptiness they leave behind, and choosing not to answer the phone, to just sit with the silence. And if I can find the strength to refill them, to turn on the music, to look at the lighthouse — maybe I will. Not for some grand purpose, but for that sour bite, that small reminder that I’m here, for now.