16/06/16

It wasn't that their conversation lacked intelligence,

it was just easier

to talk about the habits of pigeons

than why she was crying.

❊

13/06/16

It was quite the marvel really.

These three kids, they'd been here all morning.

Riding down the hill.

Running back up.

They passed at least twenty benches on the way down, along with the expected scoffs from the older generation and the occasional pretty woman.

That was what stumped 'em.

When they caught the eye of a particularly attractive blonde. 

All three hit the pavement and their skateboards flew far.

I imagine that's what love feels like.

Like you're plummeting in to hardest concrete and everything you were sure of flies out of reach.

❊

Her

And she had this habit of ordering a coffee then fidgeting with her stuff until arrived.

As though that tiny espresso was her centre of gravity.

She was bizarre in that way, right up until noon.

Of course she smoked, as her mother did.

And each one always lasted a little longer than she liked.

She kept her ashtray neat. All the ash had to stay right in the middle. It couldn't touch the empty sugar sachet she'd ripped up and pushed to the side or this god awful burning plastic smell would consume the air.

I think that's why I thought she was alright. She had her batshit crazy rituals right up until noon - keeping things where they should be and all. And I think that's how you know a girl's alright, when she won't let plastic burn because the smell annoys everyone else.

She didn't take notice of the news either. In fact, I'm sure she'd been out of the loop for a few months now. It kept her sane I reckon, almost justified her more-than-questionable habits.

I think she didn't pay attention to it because she'd decided it made her smoke more. 

And she didn't applaud the idea of being as miserable as the bastard bank men her father once said she'd do well with.

I couldn't tell you all that much more about her.

In truth, I don't know her.

We stop by the same cafe each morning, I linger nearly all day, except I know she doesn't see me, she doesn't see anyone, she's too busy.

Somedays she stays an hour or so, calls her mother, is reminded to eat, she ignores most of the incessant nagging I imagine.

And other days she's fast as hell. Barely looks up from the centre of gravity.

Either way, she's mesmerising.

Girls will do that to you, they'll drive you crazy with their weird habits.

They don't change though, never do, not really.

Especially not for bastard bank men.

❊

11/06/16

I wasn't expecting to see you hiding there,

here,

where I am now.

All these years later.

But there you were,

passing those seductive glances

you do so well.

You cut me up so bad,

so many times that

I figured there wasn't much left to destroy.

That killed me.

There you were.

After all this time.

I'd been doing alright

as it goes.

But you passed me

another seductive glance.

And I fell.

Deeper than before.

After all this time.

❊

10/06/16

You seemed brighter that day.

Liked you'd slept more than four hours and hadn't been drunk the night before.

And this rare sight filled me with a little of the good stuff.

I've stepped back, and I now see you can do it alone.

As can I.

I realise now this a movement to be celebrated.

Not mourned.

We can both manage without the familiar. We can both flourish.

We're separate entities and often - in equal measures - I think we forgot this and became so consumed by our own little bubble that we stopped living.

It's taken a few thousand miles, too many cigarettes and the occasional "let me know when you're home" message to let go.

But the hour's arrived at the right time, for once.

I think, after all this, it's now easier to come together when we wish.

And when we do wish it, I hope you chose the bar, as always.

❊

Here

There is more,

more to see, more to dance with

and alongside.

And on the wine-front,

I am more

than satisfied.

There is more sky.

More time to fill

and more pictures to take.

I notice more options

and opportunities.

It feels close enough to reach

and far enough for longing.

I hear more laughter

and conversation.

It is more alive,

more awake.

Each corner holds more detail than I can comprehend.

Here,

there are more achey feet

and greater impatience for caffeine.

And there's a greater scope for change

and exchange.

Here,

there are more words.

Spoken

and written.

Finally.

❊

Dear June...

Had you told me a year ago that at this moment in time I'd be sipping wine in the sweet, summer heat of Rome I would have howled with laughter.

Big adventures are coming and happening. It feels free and unpredictable, which scares me immensely, but I think I'm getting the hang of it.

It's this point in my life that's driving me mad with desire.

The desire to explore,

to be wherever I wish

whenever I wish.

I'm at my own dispose, finally.

And it's wonderful.

And I would love nothing more than to babble in my 'air-headed' way further, but I've got a lot of wine to enjoy, and a big city to delve into.

❊

Entirety

I feel so full.

Full of all things.

Good and not so good.

Worry.

Desire.

Hurt and heartache.

Plans,

ambitions.

Confusion.

A liver still quite intoxicated.

A heart beating a little too fast.

Two croissants and a cup of tea.

My mother's love and my father's gumption.

And a growing fire,

of excitement and anticipation

for what is just around the corner.

❊

On Stress, Abandon & Everything In Between

That's the thing no one really braces you for. Or maybe they do, but it doesn't really make sense until you're neck-deep in shit, is that stress is not just one layer thick.

Excuse the Shrek reference, but it's like an onion.

It goes on and on, yes in slow succession, still, don't doubt its strength.

Sounds agonising, doesn't it?

That's another thing, it's not, entirely.

Don't declare me a fool just yet. I know, it can be remarkably uncomfortable. And I would always advise that you don't make it home.

The more I grow, the more I believe that it's important, as human beings, to acknowledge that discomfort, and sit with it, comfortably.

And stress?

Well, stress can be pretty useful. It helps us decide what is worth that treacherous discomfort, and what is not.

And some things really aren't worth it.

I spent eight months bracing myself for battle each morning. 8am, sharp.

And each morning, I felt my body tense with an arrogant fear. And that fear, that stress, well, there wasn't any damn value in it.

It didn't make me better.

It didn't make me stronger.

It was to be survived.

And while there was a speck of value in biding my time, there was a whole heap more in leaving.

And leave I did. I abandoned it.

I left because ultimately, I believed in greater things.

That's the other loop hole that's easy to miss.

The truly spectacular process of discovering what you believe in.

There are things I believe in.

Whole-heartedly, without question, without fear.

Beliefs that shake me.

They're mostly simple, but the beauty of simple is that often, it aligns with stress evolving.

That shiver becomes something quite magic.

For me, on occasion, sitting down to write is the scariest thing to face - in fact, I've spent the better part of the last few months avoiding it.

Equally, it is the most important thing I know to do.

It moves me forward, makes me better, stronger.

It is a belief I manifest.

It is worth every ounce of stress, fear and bone-shaking awe.

And that is entirely the point.

❊

Dear May...

You are my last little fix of this place for a while. And you have no idea how pleased I am to see you. 

A hazy metaphorical grey fog hung over my head for the last two weeks of April, refusing to budge and sometimes it was difficult to summon the desire to simply get out of bed in the morning. But the mist is beginning to lift and I think the promise of, as Mama calls it, "a big adventure" has a lot to do with that.

You're the end and the beginning.

The start and the finish.

Hello and goodbye.

Goodbye to feeling trapped. And hello to a dose of free.

❊

Dear You,

35,000 ft. was pretty high.

And the whole ordeal would have been a lot easier if I'd have been that high too.

That plane was dire.

Full of 'wise' guys, talking about their 'grand' lives.

What a phoney word. Nothing's grand.

The journey made me think of that time you declared me a patient soul. I'm sure you wouldn't have said the same if you'd seen me then.

I didn't feel patient. And I didn't feel 'grand' like my company.

I felt like a phoney.

I listened to every conversation for that torturous hour and twenty minutes.

And I sought a little bit of you in every one.

That riled me up too. I hate you for that.

-

I guess there was a void.

That seems to be the only way to explain the mess we became.

Vacant. Empty. Forceless. Sterile. Blank.

All those words. And 'void' was the only one that really fit.

We did manage to fill it with a few things.

Pride. A sprinkling of ego. Confusion. Remorse.

And a plane, I suppose.

Visiting you that day was stupid. You weren't you and I was someone else entirely.

We absorbed all those bogus feelings and sat in silence - the loudest silence.

It was so goddam consuming that I couldn't hear the goddam tv - you put that stupid show on, you were always doing that. I hated you for that.

I wish we'd both swallowed our pride that day; more so, I wish I had.

It was a rare occasion that either of us owned up to our shitty actions. Damn, it was a real treat if we did.

That's where the void began. I'm sure of it. We both saw it. I'm sure of that, too.

The foolish thing is, when you did fully digest your pride, I couldn't comprehend it. I couldn't get a grip on it.

And I regret forgiving you. It was fear that prompted forgiveness. 

I've been mourning us since then.

Since that stupid day.

And I think I'd been mourning long before it came to a natural end.

I'm pretty sure you were too.

Once again, we were both too full of pride and cowardice to admit it. I hope we can at least agree on that.

That's where the silence became too loud. Too loud to hear the goddam tv.

And that's how it grew. The notorious void.

And boy, did it grow.

This is my closure. I hope it can be yours, too. I won't be enduring any more dire plane journeys, with only a bunch of fools for company. And neither will you. 

This letter will be a crumpled heap on the floor by tomorrow morning - much like me.

All my pride,

always.

❊

Dear November...

To start this month in a cosy apartment over-looking the culture of Florence isn't too shabby.

I hope it to be a sign of a strong month.

I can see that you will move swiftly, November.

And it seems all my new beginnings are arriving at once.

Ficus is a necessity here.

Focus and confidence.

Getting back in to the swing of it all could prove tricky.

I can see now that I'm ready.

November, you begin in Florence, and that's grand.

I hope you end somewhere just as bright.

❊

An Air Of Mystery

I'd be lying if I said panic hadn't set in by the fifth day.

The fifth day of silence and discomfort.

The fifth day of the sun casting auburn highlights across the clouds.

The cold is setting in, with an uneasy breeze.

~

It's important I document this. Though it's slightly uncomfortable and my heart aches. It is important.

It's important because it's a lesson. And (I hope) I have learnt from it.

What a strange situation to arise at this time in my life.

By now, I am aware of the warning signs. 

A lack of creativity. A sense of abandonment. 

And becoming isolated in a little bubble. And often, I forget bubbles are fragile.

It's fantastic to shelter myself in metaphors. It's brilliant to hide in mysterious words and quiet thoughts.

It comes at a detriment, to the safety of my bubble.

To never specify saves me, my dignity and my sanity.

(Though I'm not too sure what's left of the three).

If you asked me how I knew, I'd say, "I'm lucky to see my neurotic side, even through the greyest of clouds. And I'm lucky to recognise the stabbing pain that sprints through my veins at the first sight of trouble."

And if you read this as I do, and am doing at this moment, you've most likely realised there is no conclusion.

There seems to be no middle or end either.

That's because it doesn't end.

My thoughts don't end. My small epiphanies (usually found whilst pursuing the supermarket) rarely cease.

And my learning, well, that will always run faster than I can.

❊

A Microscopic Differential

It was a hilarious tragedy by all accounts.

A jumbled mess upon the mind. A sporadic array of circles across the arms and legs of a brave woman.

A knock of confidence and a burst of the new.

Good things tend to arrive in threes. It all happened suddenly, without notice. 

What a brave affair it was. What a happy notion it became.

A soft nudge came not long after a bout of fear. 

Cross them off your list. Turn a blind eye to the catastrophic plan. Designed and directed.

"You'll say, 'thank you, for common sense and sharp wit.'"

And still, it was a hilarious tragedy by all accounts.

❊

The Lights Are Low

And it was a peaceful end to a brave day.

Sat by an open window,

rain hurling itself at the ground.

The sky erupting with chaos.

Resting, with ease.

Candles,

burning.

Time,

passing by.

None the wiser

to any previous distress.

❊

Forecast

It's cold. And silly me is sat outside.

I'm writing outside today, with my notebook perched on crossed legs and my pen soon to run dry because I'm hoping to write about the sky and what it may hold.

12℃ isn't too cold, but I feel my body is still acclimatised to the warmth of a summer spent in Italy.

I yearn for it. 

To do it all over again. 

Longer days and warmer nights. 

Anonymity when I needed it. 

An array of wine just waiting to be picked from the shelves before my eyes. 

The blue sky that roofs my troubled head speaks otherwise. It shines a soft turquoise, reminding me that winter beckons.

There are ripe, dark clouds balancing above. Fiercely mastering the tango between one another.

Prompt and ready to erupt. 

They howl the warning of a storm. On land. Over sea. And in my mind.

I sense there's difficulty to come.

As the storm roars around me calmness will be key.

And patience is a necessity. Patience that runs through my veins can't be left short.

When the evening arrives, I must remember that it is the devil's hour. And he will reek havoc.

I have to wait until morning to reveal myself again. I will wait until morning to observe and participate amongst the sky once more.

And so it will start again.

Watching and waiting, with patience, as the sky dances around me. 

❊

A Feared Entry

"I've learnt some important lessons this week.

- If you don't hold energy, be calm.

- Absorb before you react.

- Whisky and coke is not nice.

- Free ice cream tastes amazing.

- Letting go of people that damage your presence is a good thing.

- You won't always get 100% from everyone.

In truth, I realise they sound like fairly obvious life lessons. But this week, they took me by surprise.

By the middle of the week, I couldn't see past my own bubble.

And that felt lousy.

I was show that often I expect too much and become blind to my own efforts.

Without warning, I became lost in other's success and my own self-perceived inadequacy.

Towards Friday, I over shared my own stories after too much rum and felt a heavy pang of regret the next. I was encased in my own naivety and thus, sought consolidation in too many cups of coffee.  

It all became a little tragic.

However now, after much self-criticism, I'm letting this sea of crazy wash by. I'm watching as the tide rolls out.

Gracefully.

I'm currently en route to a close friend's new venture. A place he's finally thought highly of. He's doing better now, he's successful in his own right, and will continue to be.

And that, makes me more proud than anything.

I won't be scared of other's success. I'll embrace it.

And hope these successes bring me more free ice cream.

It feels good to write freely again."

❊

Dear September...

You've been a long time coming.

And I'm glad you're here.

September, you bring brisker mornings and auburn tinted leaves. 

It's the start of a new season.

For you. And for me.

❊

Dear August...

I owe you an apology.

This letter has arrived five days late. Much like my sanity.

Somewhere between writing and taking mountains of photographs I 'forgot' about you. I say 'forgot', but I'm trying to insinuate that a great wave of guilt washed over me and I couldn't face you - that, and I've been napping a lot recently.

Despite my lateness (and audacity) I hope you'll be kind. I hope you'll be gentle and not bring as many emotional expenses as your brother before.

Please allow me to travel softly, love with all my might and keep creativity running through my veins.

Sorry, August. I'll be better next year.

❊

Where I Begin

It's Sunday. I'm sitting here on my sofa, after a strange and scary week.

The house is still sleeping, and I'm enjoying the gentle silence of the morning.

This is my favourite time of the day. Whenever possible I like to take the morning to myself. To ease in to the day. To feel some sort of calm just before the hustle and bustle begins.

And it's strange, my Mum does the same. She likes to give herself an hour before everyone else needs to be at work or school. She lets the dogs enjoy the morning air and sets the scent of coffee through the house.

So I sit. And I think of what brings me happiness. What makes my head stroll instead of sprint.

There have been seasons in my life where I haven't felt happy. Now, with a clearer head, I can see when it was hormones or a chemical imbalance. And I can now see when maybe it was a choice. I chose to do things or be around things and people that didn't add to the goodness of my life. Often, I would do the same things over and over, all the while saying "why isn't this working?" and expecting things to change.

I can be a little stubborn like that.

It makes me think of my cousin. When tears fell from her eyes and her crayons were laying broken on the floor, I asked "what would make you happy right now?"
"I want to play!"
And that's what we did, because it brought happiness.

That moment made me understand.

It's a long road this happiness thing. And life isn't so simple when you're really in it, but sometimes when you take a big enough step away, it can feel that way.

The birds outside are beginning to stir and my quiet morning is coming to an end.
But today, I will work on my wholeness and my happiness. Today I'll ask myself  'what would make you feel happy?'

And that's where I will begin.

❊