Then close your eyes and drift softly into the embrace of black, dreamless slumber.

Through the open window wafts sugar laced, baking cake mix from a home across the road. In a moment, I’m taken back to being seven years old, stood in my Grandmother’s kitchen, cheeks sticky from licking the bowl of raw cookie dough. 

We laughed, like siblings should, a shared humour misunderstood
of any sense of sensibility from others of different blood.

On the pages of Dali’s early years, an unknown hand underlined entire paragraphs, enthusiastically made illegible notes to the blanks of the paper and exclaimed YES! to the words she’s (for I presume, with the lick of led, a woman’s wrist) read across the chapters recounting Salvador’s creativity from teens to twenties. As the pages to the left of my thumb fall heavier than those to the right, the penciled notes become less frequent, until corners are no longer creased and markings cease entirely, leaving a life only half (un)read

From where do you come, unanswered and missed call, with your unknown digits and silent ringtone. Are you but another prerecorded message; even so, why not speak after the beep, next time.

I’ll wait behind the moon for you, he said, some years before a fatal last breath.
And still, she stands by the window when the curtains have been drawn, stars cocooned around her. 

Summer skies and still, moonlit nights.

Finding dead flies, stark reality of the fragility of life.

I woke before dawn to travel four hours North across the border. Caught a couple hours sleep, head-lolling neck ache and cramp in my feet, but it was worth it to get out and shout, good morning Edinburgh.

Twenty minutes after my alarm, I was by the lakeside, trainers on and early morning sun waking my sleep- stiffened shoulders; earth, sky, forest and water of the lake singing Good Morning May in the breeze.

The first rays of the beginning of spring, babies in prams and puppies off leads, cameramen filming and gentlemen escaping.

Procrastinating with words (isn’t procrastinating at all).

For the past six weeks, having lost my headphones to the ocean, I’ve listened very little to my own playlists. Instead, I’ve let conversations on public transport inspire my writing, fallen asleep to the snores of shared dorms, road tripped to others CD’s playing through open windows and mostly, thrown myself into new surroundings without the familiar soundtrack of my own music taste.

Today the light brought the year’s first hint of Spring. My head and my heart are somewhere between the oceans and the trees. Photo credit: unknown [via]

Today the light brought the year’s first hint of Spring. My head and my heart are somewhere between the oceans and the trees.

Photo credit: unknown [via]

Out of the tube on a Saturday evening and on to the road leading to Portobello market, where a man sat on his coat on the November-cold floor asking for spare change. Pockets empty, I slowed my pace, smiled at him and apologised for not sharing my silver. He glanced up and held my eyes, bemusement furrowing his brows.

'Don't worry darlin'.. it's just nice to be recognised. Thank you.'

like waves, crashing onto the rocks about the shore before a storm.