If the world would let me, I would live in my pyjamas…

If I could, I would spend my life in pyjamas.

Not because I’m hiding from the world (although, occasionally, yes), but because pyjamas feel like an agreement with myself. A soft promise not to rush the parts of me that take their time. They are what I wear when I am no longer performing competence, resilience, or having-it-all-together.

I would hibernate beneath my duvet, cocooned in that particular silence where thoughts finally tell the truth. I would keep the world at a manageable distance and let music sit beside me; not filling the quiet, but keeping it company. There are songs that understand grief, hope, and tiredness better than language ever could. I would let them do the heavy lifting.

My days would pass in fleece-lined dreams. I would write poetry the way I breathe; not for an audience, not even for clarity, but because something inside me needs a place to land. I would make art from the moment the sun arrives, unsure of itself, until it leaves again, having done its best. When the moon reaches its highest point and begins to dip, I would feel that familiar ache: the one that reminds me beauty never stays, but always returns in another form.

Books would pile at the head of my bed, dangerously so. I would live inside other people’s sentences for a while, borrowing the steadiness of well-constructed characters when my own narrative feels frayed. In their worlds, I would find a kind of rest; not escape, exactly, but rehearsal. A reminder that lives can be messy and still make sense.

Beyond the front door, the world waits; loud, insistent, convinced that urgency equals importance. It asks for answers, plans, trousers. But here, lost in imagination and wrapped in warmth, I am allowed to be unfinished. Here, I am allowed to listen inward, to tend to the quiet, to remember that the inner life needs time, not deadlines.

Maybe this isn’t withdrawal. Maybe it’s care. A gentle choosing of depth over noise, meaning over momentum. A belief; stubborn, tender, and entirely my own, that a life shaped by attention, creativity, and softness is still a life well lived.

And yes, I would do it all in pyjamas.

Because some truths only reveal themselves when we are warm enough, still enough, and brave enough to stay.

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Love,