Sunday, 26 April 2015


The right words will come with time, but for now, the silence is golden.

Thursday, 23 April 2015

Links Love #17

// Phenomenal Woman.

// The Subtle Art Of Not Giving A Fuck.

// At The Chapel.

// Gluten free images.

// Some concise, beautiful jewellery I'm lusting after.

// A blog I will never tire of.

Monday, 20 April 2015

Bright Eyes

For a moment or two, each morning, my eyes see only a blur. Patchy sunlight wraps around the few things I own. It feels heavy for a while, often a little daunting. But the dust settles. My eyes see true and I feel light. This blur has become comforting. It reveals itself so often and so quickly, as if it is there, and not there, simultaneously. 

Tuesday, 14 April 2015

A Poem For Today | 12

A beautiful blue fog
a satin cloud
a blemished star.

- David Kowalczyk

Sunday, 12 April 2015

Obsess And Create

I'm going to write a novel. A story. Of sorts. I'm going to string a few words together and call them something beautiful.

Currently, I'm sat at a wooden table. It's covered in kids' psychedelic doodles. And there's the odd crack where it's aged.
It's home. To family dinner, family arguments and now me. It's lovely.

I've been hit with inspiration. And the notion that I've formed new roots. A new home where the people are mad and complete opposites. It feels warm and tender, and my heart could burst.

It's about finding the connection. Looking deeper and below the surface. 
Look for the 3D. Go for inappropriate.
Anything you see.
There's something in everything.

Package. Wrap. Present. Recreate.

What does that look like? That webbing when you buy an orange.
What is it? It's fishnet tights and high expectations.
It's Amsterdam and bad choices.
And all you've done is open a fucking orange.

And this is my novel.

Be obsessive. Emphasise. Be fucking mental. Have faith in your ability and it will be alright.

Obsess. Obsess. Obsess.

Draw lines and never stop.

Write without lifting the pen.
Write. Write. Write.
Lines. Lines. Lines.

A novel. A scribble.
Write. Lines. Do. Move. Walk. Scribble.

This is my novel. A story. Words strung together. A burst of my heart.
Over red wine and olives.

Tuesday, 7 April 2015

Stories From The Last 18 Months

Only an hour earlier my table was occupied by a young couple, starting their day with coffee and a shared croissant. He brings up possibly moving in together; he talks of the kitchen he dreams of, a manageable garden (and a widescreen to TV to play Fifa on, but that's not so romantic, so forget it). She pushes leftover crumbs around the plate and doesn't speak for a while, and when she does, her voice sounds a little different.

So badly did I want to tell them it sounds like a dream full of life. That they're perfectly suited and shouldn't worry, but I can't, because they'll know I was listening.

I can't help it. I'm inquisitive and a little nosey, but it holds the best of intentions. I long to see how the world works, understand different thought processes, hear stories, tell stories, be part of stories.

The teen sat on table six discussing essays and deadlines. She's talking to her Mum about how she's struggling. "I need more time. It's not going in - I can't revise on a beautiful day like this."
She talks in an easy way; collected with a ripple of panic edging to the surface. A year ago this would have been my story, there are so many parallels and I wish I could console her, but I can't, because she must figure this one out herself.

Not too long ago, a rainy Thursday afternoon brought a father and his young daughter in. Her uniform a little scruffy and her hair a little disheveled. And I can't be sure, but I think I spotted blue paint coiling her fringe.
She devoured her brownie and sat still long enough to see the angst in her father's eyes. A small leap to his lap sent a wave of invincible joy to his face.
I felt my heart burn and my hands tingle, it was not too dissimilar to afternoons I once shared with my own father.

Two coffees and a tea down, somewhere between a caffeine high and nicotine withdrawal I had a lapse in concentration and a look up from my tattered notebook allowed me to catch eye with the young daughter's father - who had left me feeling a little melancholy and pretty nostalgic - we shared a brief, but mutual smile.
And I suspect he was collecting my story, just like I collected his.

Wednesday, 1 April 2015

Dear April...

A month of fresh starts and breathing easy.
A month of patience and kindness,
closure and forgiveness.

Bring excitement and adventures.
Early morning light that softly graces my skin.

April, be a month of awakenings and epiphanies.

Be what you were, what you are, what you will be, 
and what everyone else is, was and will be, too.