My locks.

This is me.

My bedroom wall.

My bedroom wall.

Forget Me Not.

I tried to forget

but you grew roots around my ribcage

and sprouted flowers

jsut below my collarbones

all day i pluck their petals

but i have not yet ascertained

whether you love me

or not.

#13: My Miss List.

It's weird what you miss. I didn't think I'd miss anything, I knew I wouldn't miss anybody - that's too much emotional efort and I've wasted too much time of my life on missing people already, I don't want to continue. I knew I'd miss my Mother though, I don't yet but I will in a couple of weeks perhaps and I feel bad saying that because  know she misses me but I just don't miss people, period - she's the only potential exception to that rule. I guess I miss my cats too in a way, I'm with them 95% of the time I'm at home. They're gorgeous, fluffy, warm, they have the most relaxing purrs, they're good company, the perfect size, they always know my mood - they really are the best companions. My Mother and my cats, that's it.

 I miss objects that I never I thought I would, things that never crossed my mind that I would miss. Things like low ceilings, bacon (my cousins are vegetarians), fry ups, I miss being able to walk everywhere, Jack Daniels, my jobs and working, chicken, the gym English adverts (they're very eccentric here, over the top), our bath tub, driving on the left, British accents (all of them), Dave (the channel), our record player, Orion (I can't find him here), Cadbury's (chocolate here is far too sugary), insults (American insults are limited and kind of suck, never wanted to call someone a twat this badly before, or a wanker but no dice), the colours of our money, Aquafresh, terracec housing.
I'll admit, it's an odd list of things and I've probably missed out a bunch but you get the picture. I used to think I hated England and everything about it and it's now that I haven't been there for five weeks that I'm starting to realise how decent it is. I mean, I love America, but England it something special. I guess my point is you should appreciate what you have while you have it and you shouldn't take anything for granted. Yawn, cliché - I know right but seriously, people would tell me I'd miss England and I never believed them because, in al honesty, it is pretty shit. But that's it. I miss its shitness, and how it wears that fact with pride. The Brits are those that say, 'yes, it's a shithole, but it's our shithole and I dare you to say something'. It's not that I can't wait to get back to England becaise I can, but when I get there I will be pleased and I will appreciate everything a lot more than I did when I left.

Oh, and jeans. I really fucking miss wearing jeans.

Symbolism.

"Yesterday, you said tomorrow." - NIKE

I have this necklace I wear, it's a gun, more accurate to say a Smith and Wesson revolver probably but whatever. It's no longer than my thumb in length and copper in colour, well it was - it's faded now to a charcoal grey. It's not on its original chain nor its original adjoining clip. I bought it in June 2012, 3 for £10 in Camden Market, London with my sister. I wear it every single day. Not because I want to seem bad ass with a gun around my neck and not because it's anything spectacular - not for any kind of superficial reason at all. I wear it because of what it means to me. To me, it's a symbol of life and death. It's there to remind me every day that today could be my last day, that I shouldn't have regrets and I should always do what I want to - what makes me happy. It's there to remind me I should always say what it is I need to say, for it I were to die and I left something unsaid a certain person would never know what it was I wanted to tell them. That I should tell those I love every day that I love them so they wouldn't have to doubt that when I'm gone. it's Carpe Diem, it's YOLO, really because they are both true - seize the day because you really do only live once.

"Our lives are defined by opportunities, even the ones we miss" - F. Scott Fitzgerald.

 and that's true also. Once we're gone, people will talk about the things we did, and the things we couldn't done but we didn't. So this gun reminds me every day to live a life I would want people to talk about. People are fighting wars so that I can stay alive, I want to live a life worth someone risking their own life for.

"I want to taste and glory in each day and never be afraid to experience pain." - Sylvia Plath.

Ethos.

ethos n. Characteristic spirit of community, people, or system. [GK (e-) = character, nature, disposition

#12: Music. (The Firefly Festival)

There is something about music that brings people together. I feel like if you really like the music you're listening to, nothing can go wrong. Like Jimi Hendrix said, 'Music doesn't lie. If there is something to be changed in the world, it can only happen through music." I really feel like that;s the truest thing anyone has ever said.

Music, live, loud music especially, is exceptional.

If you just close your eyes and let it take over your body, ride the music like a wave, let the music flow through your veins. Focus on nothing but that and your body will move in time. Lose your mind, submerge your soul. All your worrys and woes, you cares and concerns just won't matter anymore. This is applicable to all those whom music really mattes to - which is why music brings people together, and it's why only music can really change the world. I really just can't explain the feel I get whilst listening to music. It's relief, almot, when song just exactly nails how I am, be it a sad song or an opinion - whatever, it's a relief to know I'm not the only one that's felt those feelings and had those thoughts. One hears a song one can relate to and instantly knows that it will be ok because this band or artist is singing about it too, they've been through it and have survived so one will be ok in the end. That's why music brings people together, because humans are evolved to congregate for survival, and those who listen to similar music congregate for similar reasons. If you aren't a music person you probably won't understand what I'm trying to convey but if you are then you know the feeling I'm talking about; that feeling in the pit of your stomach and in the bottom of your heart and in the core of your very being. It takes over your mind, your body, and your soul completely, and it will do whenever you hear that song for the rest of your life.

Take pleasure in that.

Serbian Proverb.

Be humble for you are made of earth, 
be noble for you are made of stars.

Love for the Universe.

What is love?

love is when someone says your name and it sounds safe on their tongue.

The Moon's Cycle.

#11: The Moon.

Did you know the suns gravity is only 34% that of the moons? That's why the moon controls our tides. People can predict the tides because they know which stage the moon is in in its cycle. and where abouts it is in relation to the Earth. The tides are always highest around midday because that's when the sun and the moon are directly opposite each other the most. That's also why the Earth isn't perfectly round - it warps at the sides, this is because the sun and the moon are pulling against each other and it affects the water. Now, I'm no scientist - it was a miracle I even passed my science class, I barely even studied geography either so I don't know if this is exactly right- my explanations might be a bit off and I'm probably missing a few details here and there but, in essence, I'm pretty sure this is relatively correct.

The Moon and it's craters.

#10: a Rare Lapse

Sometimes I can't help but think... egotistically and unnecessarily and in far too much depth about things that, in the bigger picture, are not that important. Today's topic of thought is how I look. More often than not, I am satisfied with the way I look. I am aware I'm not ugly, but I'm not drop dead gorgeous either but that's ok because being drop dead gorgeous seems like far too much effort for me, too much caring about exercises and diets and all sorts - things that aren't my topmost concern. But as I'm looking in the mirror, my hair is too short and too wiry, my face too pudgy, my belly just completely out of proportion. I hate thinking like this, I never think like this but I know why these thoughts cross my mind. It's my cousins. It's not their fault, but they are the reason. They're both gorgeous; lovely slender figures, clear skin, perfect hair they never have to touch, neither of them need or wear makeup. It's hard being surrounded by text book beauty when  you're nowhere close to it I guess. And I know, I know, that looks don't matter and it's what is inside that matters - I know that more than anyone, I am a very firm believer in that fact but everyone is allowed a lapse and today is mine. Tomorrow, I'll be fine, next week too but I'll have another day like this sooner or later, where nothing looks good on and my hair won't stay right and I'll just want to not doing anything because I'm simply unsatisfied with the way I look.
I'm so sad the media has twisted what is and isn't beautiful. Who is it to tell you what you think of yourself? Of those around you? Who would we think beautiful if our ideas of beauty hadn't been manipulated and true beauty obscured?

Philadelphia Museum of Art.

The true artist helps the world by revealing mystic truths.

#09: Brace Yourself and Remember.

The waves crashing on the shore is all I can hear, No one is saying anything. The sun is beating down on my body. I can feel it warming every inch of my skin. Someone says something about riding the waves - I'm not sure what that means, I wasn't paying attention. "Alright, let's go!" Everyone is getting up and walking to the sea, I follow. The water is cold but I've been in colder - not bragging but that's what happens when you're half Scottish. I stare out at the horizon, it's breathtaking - a straight line where sea meets sky; two shades of that blue/grey colour one often finds at the beach. The ocean is roaring in my ears - calming roar, a roar that soothes the soul. I can't help but think how easy it would be to just walk into the waves and not look back, never look back. To get swept away by the ride, to let it take me some place far away. Not that I'm suicidal, this just seems like such a graceful way to die. It looks so inviting, creeping up the shoreline, enticing me. I close me eyes and let the ocean fill my mind. I hear it, smell it, taste it, feel it so much stronger now my sight has gone - I can see it perfectly in my mind. I open my eyes and it's almost a perfect mirror of my mental image. I suddenly realise I am all alone. Shit. Where'd everybody go? Simply deeper in and slightly to my left. Riding the waves. I get it now. They're jumping and diving depending how big the wave is. It looks fun., I've never done it before. I start wading my way out and my cousins comes back for me, she grabs my hand, 'just go when I go' she hollers. I get ready. We make a break for it when there's a break in the onslaught of waves. Adam is within arms length, I grab his hand - the current is very strong this far out. He pulls us further. I duck under a wave, ride the next two, then duck again, the current tries to pull me out, I hold on to Adam with all my might under the water. I resurface, can't touch the floor. My heart races, I know panicking won't help but I do it anyway, I swim back to shallower waters - at least so I can stand, as I'm swimming a wave takes me unawares, then another and I still can't touch the floor. Underwater I get tossed about, the current really doesn't look this strong, it's deceiving. I feel arms around me; strong, taught muscles lifting me up, breaking my head above the water. I have never been this glad to see Adam before in my life. He swims me back a bit until I can stand, he lets go but keeps hold of my hand. A wave comes, the biggest yet - I brace myself, we duck, his grip slides then he's gone completely. Alone, I am nothing against the water and the waves drag me ruthlessly up the shore, tossing and turning me upside down, battering my body. I hit my head in the ocean floor. I breathe in a mouthful of sea. I come up to air choking, no longer caring how I get there, all I know is I need to get to shore and quickly at that. I run up the surf and collapse just before wet sand meets dry sand. My legs are shaking, my head is pounding, my mouth tastes like salt and I'm still choking up water. My eyes sting, my heart races. I have to steady myself. Brighton (that's my cousin) comes running, 'are you ok?' I hate seeming like a pussy. Caitlin is here now too, though I'm really not sure that's her name. "I'm just going to lay down for a bit ok. I'll be fine, we don't do this in England. I've never, ever done what I just did. I'm fine, ok, I'm ok" I stagger back to my towel, I find myself collapsing again and my body goes limp. My head still pounds. Shit, what if I have concussion? I find my pulse and count my beats per minute which is stupid because I don't know my average BPM anyway, nor do I have anything to time a minute with. I focus instead on keeping my eyes ope. There are two spots on my head, the mirrored version of the other pounding incessantly. I gingerly touch with my fingers just to check I'm not bleeding. Perhaps I was being over dramatic as, when I withdraw my hands, there's no blood. I guess I'm better safe than sorry. I reapply my sunblock, eat my sandwich and replenish my thirst - stabilize myself, basically. I feel a lot better now, my body still hurts but that's ok. The tide is strong, stronger than it looks. I walk back to the shoreline and sit on the wet sand, dry sand line. The foamy fingers of the ocean are reaching out to me - grabbing at my feet, trying to drag me back to it's depth - the land of no return. It looks just as serene as it had when I was first looking but I'm wiser now. I don't go back in, instead I just watch the others fooling about in the waves, occasionally counting heads to make sure they are all still there. I can feel sand rain down my back every time I turn my head. The sun is perfectly situated in the sky, at it's highest point, beating down from all the way up there, the rays are still glorious when they reach my skin. I close my eyes absorbing the moment, trying to capture this moment forever how wonderfully warm I am, how peaceful my entire body is, my mind is a white blank page. all my attention is simply remembering now so in the future I can look back and I'll always remember how happy I once was, how I am right this very moment.

#08: Mountain out of a Molehill

''I cannot stand modern art, it's so stupid. It just doesn't make any sense." That's my cousin speaking, I don't agree with what she's saying, I love modern art but people have different opinions so I let it go. We're at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, wandering around the 15-1800s European section. They love it, me? Not so much; there's only so much I can stand until it gets boring. That's why I like modern art, it's different, subtle in meaning, you're never really sure what you're going to get. Since we got here, my cousins have been saying about a broken chair and how is it classed as it? It's just a broken chair. Even I'll admit that it does sound a bit lame but I'm not one to prejudge so I hold off my opinion until I see it myself. We wander around looking at portraits of nameless person after nameless person. This routine is occasionally interrupted by a country side image or ships at sea. Van Goh's Sunflowers are hanging proudly in a special circular room with a water fountain in the middle. I wish I had change to make a wish. We come to the modern art section and I walk straight in before anyone can stop me. I love modern art. There's something so magical about how it doesn't make sense right away. I go from sculpture to painting to whatever you want to call it, transfixed, stabbing in the dark to what they could possibly mean... to me, to the artist, to the museum itself. I take a left turn into a room and there in the center is the broken chair. It's a wooden chair and the back right hand leg has been snapped off halfway up, so it's pretty wonky. "See, how is that art?" I hear my cousin saying. Admittedly, I do see her point - it is just a broken chair but sometimes art is less about what it is and more about what it means - what it's implications are. That could sound stupid but to me, it's more than a broken chair. For instance, when you sit on a chair that wobbles, it is unstable. Perhaps this chair signifies a lack of stability in the artist's life. Or when you go to sit down and the chair isn't where you thought it was or someone has moved, there's that feeling you get in your stomach - like the opposite of butterflies, their evil twin perhaps. It's a dreaded feeling of doubt and unsureness. Maybe the artist was worrying about something - a job, a family member, a girlfriend... for some reason I assume the the artist is a male.  Maybe he could've demonstrated in another, perhaps more complicated, for but I like the chair. It's an every day object, something billions of people use all over the world basically every second. It's something everyone can relate to.  Who doesn't have a story with a chair involved? Admittedly, this is all very elaborate for a broken chair but that's how you know it's art. It's elaboracy, it's mystery, it's multiple meanings. It's lack of selectiveness - by which I mean those who can related isn't limited by wealth or status or what they've done and what they know. It's an open book of a chair. Everything can be art, you just have to look at it in the right light, the right mind set. We spend the erst of the day wandering around the museum. I don't say much - I'm just content with my own thoughts.


There's a Whole Foods stores around the corner and I decide I never want to leave. Their entire store is organic, nothing artificial, no chemicals, it's all natural. They sell Toms and natural lavender beauty products and incense burners. All the workers look like my kind of people. They guys are insanely hot. I spend $46 - I'm not entirely sure how but I don't care. $46 well spent in my eyes. On the way home, two girls are fighting in a Wawas. R. Kelly is nowhere to be seen.

#07: Revelations.

I can't get that stupid song out of my head. It's been stuck on an internal repeat since about 3pm, when we were driving about to Lewes, it's now 9:14 and I still can't get rid of it. I'd say 'ich habe ein ohr wurm' if I were German. 'Even the sun sets in paradise' is the bridge and it echoes between the walls of my mind, giving me a non-physical headache. It's an aching of the head that I can't feel but I am aware of it's presence. I am also aware that what I just said makes little to no sense. It came out of nowhere and hit me with a fistful of my own memories. I don't understand why this happens, one song will just throw me out for the entire day. I don't understand why this happens, why I have to keep thinking about it - why can't I just let it go? I should be having fun - there's new people, new jokes, new experiences - it's my first ever American 4th of July but instead I'm dragging baggage from practically another life into this fresh mindset I'm trying to adopt. I feel like there's a hole in my heart that can only be filled with specifics... specifics that just aren't mine to indulge in anymore. My feeling like this is ridiculous, completely unjustifiable. I was over it months ago; I was starting to get over it before it had even officially ended - i knew the end was inevitable, more when than if. I began wishing it would run it's course sooner rather than later if I'm honest. I know that's a terrible thing to wish for. I ran away because I was afraid - I know that now. And it's now I wish I could go back and try again, try harder but I know I can't. It would be counter-productive. It would be over before it had the chance to begin. I'm over it and I need to move on. sometimes I just miss feeling special - my attitudes now don't need me to feel special, they just 'get the job done' to put it crudely. Thinking like this makes me think perhaps I have moved on and I don't miss you per say. I'm saying you because it feels easier to directly address you than to refer to you in the third person. I'm also saying you because you're the only one I've had to feel this much for, for so long. The others were nowhere as consequential. It's only ever been you, really. And now you're not at all. From basically every day for four years to perhaps once every four months. So yes, I miss you: you were my rock. But I also miss who you were: again, you were my rock. But I miss you separately in these two ways. I miss you specifically and I miss the person you represented. The person you represented will always change, I'm just waiting for the next one to fill your shoes (they are both big and little shoes to fill, I'm sure you understand why) but the person you were to me, that's an empty place no one could ever fill. I hope you know this, but I doubt you do. I just need you, in the very core of your being, to know this without question, explanation, or actual need to be told because I could never tell you this, what I've just said, because it's too intimate for the current state of our relationship. If you could even call it that anymore. Sometimes I wonder if I meant it when I told you I loved you but sometimes I know it's the truest thing I've ever said.

#06: Strange Situations.

‘Are you a virgin, in the backseat?’ The question pierces my half hearted reverie. I don’t respond right away, not sure if I want to go there right now. I wasn’t paying too much attention to the conversation, I’d overhear words and sentences and let them shape my thoughts into less abstract ideals. I asses how comfortable I am with unleashing this information, with these people in this car, at this time. I’m not a secretive person, in fact I am a very open one, but there are different rules when a member of family is present.
The day was over in a flash. Starting at Joes, then to Applebees and Wal-Mart, to Brians house then back to Brighton’s just for a moment then to Adam’s house where we spent the evening which brings me back to now, driving home in a strange guys car. The latter thought is oddly comforting. I guess it’s a familiar situation for me. The guys were laid back, reserved toward my unfamiliar presence at first but after a twenty minute session of ‘get the British chick to say funny things in her accent’ a sense of comfort descended over the day’s company. They teach me a game, it’s called Ninja - the aim is to slap someone’s hand, by which they’re rendered out. The winner is the one left with one or both hands unslapped. It turns out I was pretty good, they were impressed with my daring. I instantly felt accepted.  Brighton and I were the only females in a group of ten; they were all attractive in their own way. The rest of the day passed in a similar fashion. British vs American culture and an introduction into how they live. My increased relax in state must be apparent as it is mirrored in their own character. At Adam’s we play the N64 and read sexual articles from his magazines. I’m a little rusty so I loose a lot but they appreciate my not being a sore loser and as for the sex discussions, I’m not sure what would be appropriate to say regarding my newly come status so I focus instead on pitching curve balls on the baseball game I picked out. We realise it’s midnight and we have to leave, two quick games of Ninja before we do (I win one, lose one) and that brings me to this moment and this unanswered question. Deep breath, ‘no’ I say, ‘no I’m not’. I look forward and neither of them show any signs of surprise but I guess that doesn’t mean anything. Brighton comments on the fact he called me ‘in the backseat’ rather than my name as we pull into the driveway, nothing more said on the matter. I thank him for the ride and tell him it was a pleasure. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon, he replies. I’m relatively flattered. I fall asleep thinking about my sexual history - I can’t tell if I’m embarrassed or proud or simply indifferent. Before I get too caught up in my internal debate, exhaustion wins out and my drowsy mind has somewhat settled for indifference.

#05: Secrets in the Stars.

Walking into a room of strangers is unnerving no matter how confident a person you are. It’s always a deep breath situation. I present myself but barely anyone acknowledges my arrival anyway, sod's law. I get introduced and receive a chorus of hellos but other than that nothing of note seems to occur. I find myself in a conversation with people whose names I forgot as soon as they were told to me - nothing personal, I’m just not a name person.
They find humour in my accent and my typically British way of phrasing things, it doesn’t particularly wear thin but not everything I say needs a reaction. I'm just tired. We kill time talking, a few of the guys play the x-box, eventually we put the film on. Sherlock Holmes: a Game of Shadows. I love it, no matter how many times I watch it, it’s always as good as the first. We get picked up just post 11pm, I make sure to thank the host for his hospitality, I trip up a step as I leave. How embarrassing. It’s a balmy night, the air is hot and humid but it’s not as intense as it has been this week. I wind the window down and the air feels good on my face, the wind runs it’s fingers through my hair as we drive down the freeway. It’s a clear sky, there’s not a cloud in sight. I can’t get used to the stars here - they’re the same ones as back home seeing as I’m still in the northern hemisphere but they’re different. They don’t seem as bright. Ursa Major is always apparent but Ursa Minor considerably less so. I search for the Pole Star, knowing I won’t give up until I spot it. It doesn’t take me too long to find him, I’m quietly impressed with myself seeing as I’m in a moving vehicle. I see Cepheus too, but no Orion. I haven’t seen him once since I’ve been here, not for a lack of trying however. A sense of feng shui always encompasses me during moments like this. The night, the music, the stars - this trinity combines and emits a sense of wonder from the core of my very being. I feel like I am at one with the world. It makes me realise that, like Voltaire says, ‘I don’t know where I am going, but I am on my way’. So then I am led to believe that, right here, right now, is exactly where I should be and no matter  wherever else it is that I am going to go, being right here, right now is enough and in this very moment, I should feel nothing but content serenity and perhaps a small buzz of fundamental excitement that shall last for the duration of my existence.

#04: An Abundance of Profundity.

It’s 10:45. I’m hot and sweaty. The A/C is off. The air is thick. Another day of not doing much, the sixth day of my vacation to be precise, but I’m feeling good. It was over 100 Fahrenheit today, roughly converted that’s 38 degrees Celsius, aka something I’m not used to. My body doesn’t mind too much, I’m happy here, it appears to be a case of mind over matter. The fan on the ceiling is chugging along, trying to chivy the air into a cool breeze. It’s a fruitless attempt, the air is stubbornly stagnant.


‘I really, I just don’t get it. At all.’ My cousins voice cuts the silence. She’s talking about her friend recently dispositioned to the land of drug abuse. He’s playing on her mind, he’s not the same she says. We talk about him for a while, then to a more abstract discussion of drugs. I feel bad for her, I do. I know how she feels, only it wasn’t just one friend for me, it was several and it wasn’t just a friend, it was two of my siblings. Drugs aren’t terrible, they’re bad for you and they’re dangerous but as long as one doesn’t succumb to addiction I think they’re ok - but what do I know? I’m no expert. We return to talking about guys, we talk about male friends and ex boyfriend, the cross between the two and future relationships. I tell her all the history of my love life; considering the members of that club it shouldn’t be too long a story but I guess they all came and left with a fair share of baggage, perhaps one more then the rest… admittedly he was the only one of real consequence. This conversation lasts a while, it savours in a profound feeling of something I can’t quite place… regret? My story seems naked, hanging in the air of a strange place with no essence of familiarity to clothe it. The words seem strange even just leaving my lips to now exist in a place of which our relationship never explored. I tell her about my current situation, my body taking a sigh of relief as the burden of secrecy is unloaded. Not intentional secrecy mind, just a content ‘doesn’t need to be spoken about’ secrecy, until now. Once I start speaking, it’s hard to stop - these thoughts and feelings have been kept hostage for the longest time, yearning for the opinion of another to guide me on my way. That moment has arrived and it’s exactly what I wanted it to be. She offers me the advice I think I’ve been needing: to go forward, to not look back, to make sure that whatever I do, I put myself first, to make sure that my choices make me happy. Kind of cliché but still appropriate. I internally swear to myself that I’ll adhere to that advice, it’s reasonable and well balanced. Now it’s her turn, she offers me the stories of her past, her I love yous and her heartbreaks though she requires no advice so my input is minimal - just understanding mms and aahs in the appropriate places. The conversation dwindles to a natural halt and in the strange silence I’m left wondering if I could’ve changed how things turned out. I know I could’ve, I easily could’ve but it’s a case of easier said than done. I’m a runner, that’s what I do. I run away from things that scare me, I run from things that are more powerful than myself, from things that I don’t understand and can’t control. That’s why I avoid relationships - because they scare me, they are more powerful than I am, they pertain so much I don’t understand and they are completely beyond my control. They scare the hell out of me, that’s completely sans my opinion on love too but alas, that’s for another time. For now, I’m going to focus on my fear of relationships and I’m going to try to overcome it, for the only thing worth fearing, is fear itself.

#03: A Bump in the Night.

I wake with a start, groggy, disoriented, I can’t remember what woke me. A flash outside, ‘what’s up with the streetlights?’ I think. I still can’t remember what woke me. The sky roars. I remember now. Another flash, so bright it’s blue, tears across my window. I count, barely 2 seconds before the thunder. It’s right above the house. I see a light reflection in the mirror, what the hell is going on? If this were a movie the camera would zoom in on a bead of sweat dripping down the side of my face, my neck whipping round to who’s just opened the door, false alarm it’s just my cousin. She’s just making sure I’m ok, how irrational it would be to not be. It’s only thunder and lightning, yes I’m fine. She comes in with the dog and we three sit, staring outside. It’s as if the heavens have opened, the rain is just pouring down from the sky, relentlessly beating any surface on which it lands. The power goes out. We’re encased in darkness. This time, the thunder shakes the bones of the house, the bones in my body. It takes the breath out of my lungs just momentarily, then lights the are back and some kind of peace is restored. We sit for a while longer, talking of colleges and courses and fees, comforting the dog. She doesn’t understand what’s going on, is ignorance scarier than enlightenment? We resolve to get something to eat, I settle for organic strawberry pop tarts. They taste of sugar, too sweet but I eat it anyway, one’s enough. The power goes out again but this time it stays out. It’s darker than before, the streetlights have gone out too. Guiding our search with the lights on our phones, we search for candles and matches. Two candles later and we’re in the garage searching for the flashlights. Now we have two candles, two flashlights, we set them up strategically so the kitchen is bathed in a weird glimmer of light. Harsh but flickering, it works. I decide I have to pee, accompanied by a flashlight I make my way through the silent house. In moments like these I realise my mind is my own worst enemy. It plays scenes of a gunman busting out from behind the bathroom curtain, zombies coming through AC vent. It’s funny, when I first got here I didn’t realise the AC vent was there, on the floor, below the toilet roll holder, it took me a while to realise that it was the AC blowing the toilet roll, and the house wasn’t haunted after all. My mind manipulates scenes from the scarce selection of horror movies I’ve been exposed to and puts my face in danger zone. I hurry back to the safety of our pool of light, the safety of company, the safety in denying there’s something I need to be saved from. It was just gone midnight when I woke, it’s now fifteen to one. A part of me wants to avert my eyes, hide under the duvet but the other part of me can’t tear itself away from the window, the light pierces the sky, it is a literal fork of light. It’s captivating. Suddenly the rain isn’t so loud, there’s maybe 6 seconds before the thunder, it’s leaving as suddenly as it came. The power is still not on. I’m sweating, my t-shirt sticks to my back, my hair to my face; no power means no fans, I can’t sleep naked in my cousins bed. I say my good nights and pad back to my designated room, flashlight illuminating my path in the dead of the night. I lay facing the window, the lightning a mere echo of what it used to be, I can’t even hear the thunder anymore. Over in an hour. I’m not sure how I feel, I can’t work out if I’m scared or excited, anxious or content, overwhelmingly sad or pleasantly happy. They’re the opposites of each other but right now they mean the same thing. I feel everything. I let Dallas Green and Dave Matthews Band sing me softly to sleep, my mind awash with nostalgia and memories and what used to be's. I dream of beaches full of my loved ones and the rain washing everyone away until they are just an echo of what they once were, washing them away until they gone forever.

#02: My Arrival.

A flash of light, the sky is entirely illuminated, just for a moment, then a suffocating darkness again. My heart races. Lightning. The plane has begun it’s descent. Despite our delayed take off, we’re landing right on time, it’s just gone 8pm and it feels like midnight. My body clock is confused, I’ve not slept and my muscles ache. Irregardless of the weather, we land smoothly, the captain wishes us a nice night, the passengers don’t applaud.
Next stop: customs. The walk isn’t too long but my bag straps have returned to their cutting into my skin as I walk, I’d put on my other jacket  for resistance but I’m too hot, too stuffy. I’ve not had a breath of fresh air since 1:30, nearly 24 hours ago I guess. How gross. The queues aren’t too long but they’re taking forever, the Federal officers, I think that’s what they’re called, are taking finger prints of everyone they speak with. I’m dreading it already. I move up the line and take out my passport, it doesn’t look much like me anymore, it expires in October. I get called up, it’s my turn. He’s very polite, a very Southern drawl to his voice, a handlebar moustache. I hate to stereotype but… he asks me how I am, how long I’m in the country for, where am I going, what am I doing here, who am I staying with, for my finger prints, he takes my picture - all necessary security devices I imagine. We chat, he’s friendly but he’s doing his job. He asks me what my Aunt and Uncle do to which I’m rendered clueless, I tell him my Uncle was in the Military and he retired just recently, my cousin just graduated high school and my other cousin works in a health store, I told him other than that I really, actually don’t know. “Now Emily,” he says, “you’re in the country for a mighty long time, how do you plan to financially sustain yourself?” I stumbled over my tongue as I told him I’d saved up enough and that my Mum would send me dollars if I needed them via my bank. “Huh, ok.” There’s a pause as he looks at me, I smile. “So you’re not planning to work illegally are you?” I’ve practically gone from bomber to immigrant in the space of a few hours. “God no, Sir! Not at all. I’ll be too busy enjoying your fine country to want to work. I just finished college, this is just a nice, long break for me.” I guess I sound sincere because he hands me back my passport and my visa form. “This red mark here, Emily, is where I was going to send you in for further, intensive questioning, but I changed my mind because you seem like you ain’t gonna do nothing illegal now so this red mark here says you’re alright. Now, when you hand this in they’re gonna look at this for a while but you’re ok, because I’ve said so. You don’t gotta worry, ok.” I tell him I’m on my best behaviour this coming ten weeks, I promise, and thank you very much. He sends me on my way to secondary checks which is just where I hand in my form and then I can be off. True to the guys word, when I hand in my form they do look at it for a while but decide it’s legit and let me on my way. I have to pee before I get my baggage. It doesn’t take too long to find a restroom in which I leave my bags on the counter outside the cubicle because, quite frankly, I’m too tired to faff about now. I splash my face and the cool water trickles down my neck, it’s greedily welcomed by my skin. It’s a glorious sensation. Back outside and our luggage is chugging round the carousel. I’ve spotted mine already, I’m about to haul ass with a bag on each shoulder and a suitcase when I spot trolleys. there’s a cacophony of hoorays echoing around my mind. This is exactly what I need, they cost $4 but right now, I couldn’t care less. Alas, it’s not meant to be, the stupid machine won’t take my money. I try the next one along and meet the same ends. I’m too tired to try another, I position my bags as best I can and follow the signs that say arrivals. I’m a bit nervous, I hope I dno’t look too shabby. I wonder who’s going to be there to pick me up. There’s excitement in my veins. I walk down the arrivals catwalk and recognise no one. I double check but still nothing. There is no one here to collect me. I breath in deep, there’s no point freaking out, let’s be rational about this I tell myself. They’re probably just held up because of the storm. I look out the window and the rain is just cascading from the sky, it’s relentless. That’s definitely it, I tell myself. I phone my mum to tell I’m safely on the ground and my current situation. She freaks out, starts fretting - do they know it’s today? I’m like yes of course Mother, what. It’s then she realises we have no contact number for the place of which I’m laying residence to while I’m here in this country, how did I not think to take anoyone’s number? I feel somewhat idiotic. I’ve now been sat an hour, perhaps there’s been an accident in the road and they’re waiting in the traffic, that happens, right? I’m trying to think of rational reasons as to why they could be an hour late. I’m sat alone, because everyone else has been collected and taken to where they belong. The whiteness, the cleanliness of the building just reflects the light, making it seem bigger, making me seem smaller and even more alone. It’s now an hour and a half and I’m bored. I pace but that doesn’t help. I can’t read, my mind is not in the right place to read. All I can tolerate is music. I realise I have to pee again, do I risk going to the toilet and hope they don’t turn up while I’m in there or do I wait and end up nearly peeing myself? I sit for a little longer to decide. No, I really, really, have to pee. I pick up my bags and make my way back to the toilet, bags in tow. I don’t even lock the door, my brain is no longer functioning with any sense of coherency whatsoever. Ugh. I’ve been here two hours and my mum phones, she tells me she’s phoned my Aunt in Florida and left a message on her answer machine, that my sister has left my number on all their Facebook walls with instruction to call me and to please, let me know what’s going on. I’ve been on the ground for perhaps two and a half hours now. My phone rings, a number I don’t recognise but the area code is 0013 and I know that’s America. Finally, someone. It’s my Aunt, she’s a gush of apologies and excuses. They didn’t think I landed until 10:19. I don’t know where they got that number from because I was never going to be that late. My Uncle is on his way, she tells me to sit tight and to keep an eye out. She keeps me on the phone while she phones him, tell hims where I am etcetera. All is well. I have to pee again but I’ll wait, I’ll go when he gets here. another fifteen minutes pass and finally he steps out of the elevator. I’ve never been this grateful to see him in my entire life. We talk the entire hours journey home until I nod off somewhere twenty minutes from destination. I wake up and we’ve pulled into the garage. An abundance of hugs and kisses and sorrys come my way but I don’t care anymore. I was waiting nearly three hours but I’m here now, that’s all that matters. A bacon sandwich is trust in front of my and I scoff it with appreciation, I pee, we talk, I go to bed. I find my pyjamas, i don’t even bother to wash my face or brush my teeth, I just collapse into bed with my iPod in and, I swear, I’m asleep before the first song has even finished playing.

#01: The Flight.

I’m there, at the balcony, looking down. People are swarming about, doing their thing, minding their business - like ants. Each person convinced that their journey, destination, their plans are the most important thing in the world, paying no regard to the others they push past obligating a similar notion. Everyone has the same agenda, get there early, get seated early, stay safe, stay together. The way they move about each other, avoiding contact, carving their paths out almost twenty feet ahead of their physical being it seems. It’s mesmerizing almost, to watch, all these people, knowing I’m just one observing another. I am them, they are me. We are the same thing, a body of people with the same wants and needs but separately going about our own business. I have to tear my eyes away before I get too caught up, before I go down a murky path filled with questions and whys - asking myself is this really it? Is this life?


    That was six hours ago now. I’ve moved on a lot since then. Through duty free, past the girls caked in make up trying to sell me their pretty things, trying to convince me with their smiles that if I buy their product, I shan’t ever want again. Trying to convince me that it’s their product that I’m looking for, it’s their product that will change my life. No, it’s not. Life is more than skin deep, I don’t care for smelling like Madonna, I don’t care for DKNY handbags. I want realism. Airports are contradictions of realism. These girls pretending that this is all you need for happiness, but the frowns at customs searching my person are telling me different, they tell me I look like a bomber, that my bottle of water is clearly about to blow up. That’s real. Threat, death, it could happen. It could happen to anyone - me, you, the person I shared an elevator with when I left the car park. That’s why those frowns are there, because this happens. Paradoxically standing next to each other, trying to win people over with fake smiles and furrowed brows. So far so good, no threat, no death. A numb foot and cramped knees but I’m still all in one piece. I look to my right and there are strangers, for I am on this trip all alone. A baby is crying, I’m not tolerant enough to bear it so my music gets turned up - reflex. My left is just a sea of cloud, stretching to the horizon, stretching to beyond the ability of my sight, fading to a haze of white and blue, blue and white. The sky is crystal clear above, a blanket of white below. It’s almost like snow, the way it just covers everything, no exceptions. I assume we’re still above the ocean, I couldn’t tell you which, I’m no geographer, perhaps the Pacific? North Atlantic? I’d say my guess is as good as yours but it’s probably not. If we made an emergency stop now, I’d be swimming to safety. I know I’m going west, and that’s where the sun sets, or am I wrong on that too? I don’t know, just have to hope an emergency stop isn’t necessary I guess. Would make quite the story though, especially if I survived.


    We should have three hours until we land but our takeoff was delayed an hour so I guess it looks like we’re not on schedule anymore. I don’t know what I’m going to do for another four hours. Read, watch a movie. I don’t want to sleep because I don’t want to mess up my body clock, I’m sure they won’t mind if I have an early night and a lay in tomorrow morning. Dreading getting off the plane, customs, immigration and such. Especially as I’m staying for such a long time, I feel like they’ll ask me an abundance of questions, yes I know the address of where I’ll be staying, no I shan’t be staying anywhere else, the reason of visit is purely… what’s the word I’m looking for? It’s a posh word for fun but I can’t quite place it, it means personal too - a word for personal fun. But you know what I mean, that’s my reason for visit. No, I don’t have a contact number, yes, not getting it was a stupid idea but I can’t change that now. I hope they don’t keep me too long. I hope they don’t get a angsty about all the food in my checked luggage. So much to think about. I just want to arrive already and eat. I am honestly so hungry, today I’ve eaten a croissant, half a pack of munchies, a pack of wine gums and a pack of M+Ms, then the dinner British Airways was kind enough to provide. It was tasty, some pasta dish, it was a smaller portion than a portion you get from a Chinese so I’m still starving. I’m hoping they’ll feed us again soon because I have no other food with me. Bit stupid I guess but my bags were already so heavy on my shoulders I didn’t want to put anything more in them. I feel like I’ll scar, I’ll have permanent marks from where the straps burnt into my skin as I walked. Every step cut into my shoulders, my calves, my feet. My body was screaming, it seemed like I’d never get to the plane. I departed from gate C62. Seriously. I mean, when has anyone, ever, departed from gate A1? Does that gate even exist?! I feel like they just start making gates up somewhere after 20, A20+, B20+, C20+. Airports are so much hassle. So much to worry about all the time.


    I wish I had something a bit more interesting to say but I don’t. I just need to write, to give my brain something active to do. Reading, watching movies, listening to music is too passive. I need my brain to actually think. I want to talk to someone but that’s not really acceptable behaviour on a plane… striking up conversation with passengers you don’t know is likely to arouse suspicion, especially if they’re unwilling participants in said conversation. I feel like I really need a breeze on my face, the air on this plane is too still, stuffy, second hand. I can’t help but yawn, I didn’t sleep until around 3am last night, my alarm woke me up around 7, it’s now almost 10pm, but it’s not. My iPod is telling me it’s currently 5:05 in New York city, funny that. 505 by the Arctic Monkeys is currently playing. Because of that song, I see that number and can’t say five hundred and five, instead I say five oh five. It’s just one of those things, I think I listen to them too much. It that possible? To listen to a song too much? I don’t know.
  
 If I’m heading West and my window is facing South, That means the North/East side has the sun? Or is that entirely wrong. I don’t know. I just want to think about something smart to keep my brain alive, I don’t want to be practically brain dead when I land, that would be ridiculous. Obviously that isn’t going to happen but my own conscious is starting to get a bit boring now, I mean, I haven’t really spoken-spoken to anyone since about 3pm, which was 7 hours ago. I mean, I’ve spoken to the Steward(esse)s and briefly the lady besides me but nothing in depth, nothing too articulate really. I have 27% of my battery left. I wonder how long that will last me. I wish I’d been on the ball this morning and charged it completely so I had a bit more time. Oh well, shoulda, coulda, woulda is always so much easier in the past tense. I’ve been noticing that recently. Starting to make a point of doing things before it’s too late. Before things have changed too much or moved on. It’s so easy to lay the burden on the promise of tomorrow but tomorrow isn’t always going to be there. Sooner or later, you’re going to wish you’d done it yesterday. What if you wanted to tell someone something but kept delaying it but, and I know this is a bit extreme, they died? What then? They would have died without ever knowing what it was you wanted to say, knowing how they felt or thought about it. It’s the same egotistically. What if you wanted to quit your job and go travelling or get that haircut you’ve always wanted but never dared to or just have a one night stand to see how it feels… and then something happens so you can’t, perhaps you have an accident and from then on are entirely dependent on another? What if something happened that would from then on stop you from doing all these things you give to tomorrow, or, more specifically, the idea of tomorrow. Because that’s what tomorrow is. It’s not a promise. It’s an idea. It does not always exist. It will not always exist. People make this mistake too often for others not to realise what a shame it is when it happens, I know I’m not going to mistake they did, but what about you? Are you going to make that mistake too? Stop believing in tomorrow. It will only exist if you let it.