Into the Woods



There is so much time here. The hours stretch out like elastic and snap back at you without any notice. The clocks follow suite, forever trembling on the edge of the hour instead of ticking steadily along with the rest of the world. Work and travel keep the days neatly full. But the space that falls between them sometimes lags in a hushed, whispering way that I am not accustomed to. There is nothing to do but read. Scribble my way through postcards and unsent love notes, tire my poor pens so much that they protest and run out of ink.

I go into the woods. Take walks and get terribly lost. Go driving through the countryside with Billie Holiday singing me through trees and semi-filtered sunlight. I’ve taken to wearing long skirts and gumboots, often coming home covered in mud with feathers in my hair. Unsure of how it got so late. The hardest thing of all is to stay firmly rooted in the present when all I dream of sometimes is the future. Future trips and hotel keys and long, winding train rides in the afternoon. The friends I’ve planned to see. The people I’ve planned to keep on loving. The inevitable moment when, one day, I’ll cross back across these oceans to find them again. Months are laid out in front of me like stepping-stones but I don’t know where they’re leading. The most frustrating thing is wanting to unwrap the future before I’m allowed to although days do not tear open like tissue paper, although I am not allowed even a glimpse of what the stars gleam each night knowing.

The only things I’m sure of are who I am and who I want to be. When you follow a scattered trail of omens blindly across the world like I have, those things just become apparent along the way. Some people put their faith in God and sacramental wine. I put my faith instead in stories, in collecting experiences one by one, in the laws of the Universe. I read once that there is no God other than life itself. That love is a prayer. And so while once I prayed with hands and lips and skin, now I pray in words, in sentimental photographs, in salt and lipstick stains and old songs playing on repeat. All rugged and cast out into the world in the pursuit of dreams but hoping (with clenched fists and crossed fingers, with all the lost potential of wishing wells and pinky promises and candles blown out on a lifetime of birthday cakes) that where we’ve planned to end up is where we’re meant to be.

But that’s not for now. Not yet. I am not just in transition, in fact, I’m somewhere rather wonderful. These are the days of Bukowski and glass after glass of expensive red wine. Of cutting my own hair. Of accents and long, lace dresses and airline tickets to incredible places. I don’t yearn for the past anymore. Only for each moment to unfold as it will and, in the meantime, to be wonderfully and terribly aware of every possible thing that’s existing all around me. To continue being somewhat of an explorer of the world. It doesn’t even matter how I got here anymore. This is how I live now.  












2 comments

  1. This is beautiful. I know the feeling of wanting to see the future ahead of time, and sometimes I think I can. I want to read more from you.

    /Avy

    http://mymotherfuckedmickjagger.blogspot.com

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    1. How have I only just seen this? Thank you though, you're very kind. I've a new post up now if you'd like to read it x

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