when i am strewn across continents when i am not writing you when i am wandering places you can’t, for now, i hope you remember that my dearest, most simple, most sacred and most grace-filled memory of this summer will not be, the evenings spent watching fjords move around me like strange, dark mirrors each swallowing the night under the pale glitter of a midnight sun, with it’s arctic glow turning thin cloud into silk and smoke and it won’t be the shutters of ivy-wrapped cottages hidden away in those ancient french villages or the sundials, the star maps, the train rides or cities so humid and crowded and all overwhelming me
i think we’re two travelers, each coloured in the different shades of grief and we’ve both been weaving stories, oh, all the places we have been but we are drawn to this shore, as if by some silver celestial string like how the moon lures the tide, may our ocean wash everything clean
i’ll be back in the winter, when the light is low to condense, rise, and crystalise these thoughts, into action. transforming fractal patterns given form something like the frost we’ll tread, a million sparkling galaxies gifted the briefest life in our frozen garden.
i weave dreams in the dying light intoxicated by foreign perspectives, illuminated by shifting horizons, and the dripping silver night. the seasons spread angularly around me. it’s september now, and the words i’ve been crafting grow more intricate, more cautious i hope they cling to you. (it is my intention to post something every day here for a month. we shall see what happens!)
you might not have noticed, but the night air is quivering. there’s a chill pouring in through the window. watch autumn unfurl, gather the last of your words like summer wildflowers and then press them on these pages, will this be the season that everything changes?
heartbreak, and the pacific coast highway. patches of scattered wildflowers, rolling gradually into norwegian arctic coral beaches, sun-bleached bright white against crystal coves of the clearest turquoise. aching knees, too many airplanes, and a rented bicycle. all of these things brought me to this brief patch of autumn, these last few weeks of a september, misty low and tumbling grey. similarly to the changing seasons, my thoughts move more gently now, lulled by the shifting of light and by the flickering candle-glow of memories and contemplation. i am wrapped in constellations, in the constellations of him, my old winter’s friend who, for years now, has in shining armour, leapt to my defense.
los angeles feels like some distant dream, watch as rain falls around me in pouring sheets i swapped desert flowers, for this heavy green and the electric glow of harmony
it’s 4am, august 17th, 2016. i’m wide eyed awake, and again, raising mountains in my mind – they’re the kind of peaks that can’t be climbed, and i just can’t figure it out, how to go about housing these flustered thoughts, each amplified by the low and heavy night, it’s bottomless, almost, dense with a silence so thick it threatens tangibility. i can almost reach out and with trembling fingers touch it. the night drips like ink, deep indigo spilling all over me, near-suffocating. can i be frighteningly honest? i’m struggling. soon, though. soon, sheets of sunrise will pour angularly, slanted and staggered through the painted pale blue shutters, and the thrown-wide-open windows , of this little limestone cottage, all covered in ivy, honeysuckle, and wandering fruit vines. how many hundred summers have these sun-bleached farm and manor houses seen? and, soon, the dappled gold gentle warmth of another late summer morning will set my skin aglow, turn my hair to straw, and the bedroom, with it’s net canopy and creaking oak floorboards, …