You’d be surprised how much of my writing is done while travelling. It doesn’t matter how long or short it is, there’s something about constant moving and changing of scenes that move me to write.
I’m reading Jack Karouac’s On The Road, while I don’t find his way of writing very appealing, the life of Dean Moriarty keeps me hooked. The glorious recklessness, stupid ignorance of youth and the hurting that comes after is too much of a mirror to so many of our lives. I’m moving slowly and steady with the book, I’m tired but mostly too nervous to finish a book , look up and find nothing to look at.
I wake up early mornings and in this small part of the world, February is slowly letting go of the bone digging cold. My journal is being filled with quotes instead of my own words and somehow everything feels like it’s leaving. I dream about large waves and an island but there’re no colours. All of the world had turned into black, white and grey. Sometimes at night the wholeness of the disappointment that I’ve been visits me. Tell me things I already know, I say yes yes oh honey I know, but I’m sorry. I’m almost always reaching out for love but really I just want to crawl into tiniest spaces of lonely and be there.
I drink coffee at 3 am , try to perfect my omelettes and keep my lights off. Loss tastes different every time we experience it doesn’t it? I realise how empty twenty years old can be I realise how incomplete humans can be, how our mouths really cannot find words for our feelings and how many things get lost between our organs. I have so many things to say but I open my mouth and hear my own silence. It’s 5 am and I learn that the space between two people have a voice. That your heart can love merciless and sometimes it feels a lot like God is dismantling you in parts.
It’s 8 am, I realise it’s important to try and forget who you are and the life you want is running backwards.