Liverpool.

I didn’t know what to expect as the train hurtled me far into this western corner, but as my clumsy feet found themselves standing between your golden-ruffled grin and your freckle-kissed blue eyes, I suddenly found myself home.

This was not because any of these streets held any familiarity, and not because these crowds held any long-lost faces. I was home because I finally felt like there were no longer fault lines or hard edges or a squeezed fit: here, belonging felt effortless. With the pair of you beside me, this foreign city furled into a place where my name didn’t feel strange; I felt safe, and welcomed and loved.

And the feeling of home grew as every minute passed: as I made friends within your friends and shared in your smiles; as I learned your families’ names and revelled in their laughter; as I cooked and skipped and tripped beside you in each passing moment. And, for that, I could not begin to express my gratitude. For so long I had always felt content in half-hearted friendships and ill-fitting matches, and it was more than a blessing to taste the friendships I had longed for so long: to finally find a home when for so long I was trapped in empty streets and cul-de-sacs.

Because that’s the thing about home: it is far from bricks and mortar and a postcode. Home is knowing that your name is safe in someone’s mouth and home is no longer having to work. Home is no longer having to construct a perfect image. Home is reality and laughter and watching you wrestle your sister over photographs you’d rather left unseen.

And though train track wrenches us miles apart, I have never felt closer home. And though watching you hurtle far away, back into that western corner, heavied my heart like nothing else, I could not be happier. Because of you, and our entirely serendipitous friendships, I finally know that I belong.

(Photograph: Alamy, sourced via The Guardian)

Best.

“Did you know I can touch my nose with my nose?”

We’re sitting in my car at the traffic lights, and I’m close to tears. I slowly turn my head to the left. Sure enough your tongue is rammed right up your nose.

And I’m just sitting here, almost about to break; you’re sitting there with drool covering your nose.
The tears fall.
And I’m laughing.
I’ve never loved you so much before.

I’m in love with you because you know how to turn my days around. You think it’s funny when I’m mad, or stressed or fixed on something completely insignificant. You tell right away when something is not okay. You do anything and everything to make me feel better, and never fail at it. You make me laugh by looking at dumb photos of obese cats and dogs with strange expressions in bed. You see my faults and choose to completely disregard them. You know exactly what to say. You hold my hand, or touch my knee or say my name and the world is okay again. You make no sense and do the silliest of things and say things completely out of the blue, and I love it.
You’re honest. And that’s the best part.

Quite frankly, you are the best. This time I really mean it.

Mapped.

It’s almost as if the stars slowly pin-pointed their constellations to this.

It’s as if every tiny decision made; every question asked; every struggle faced all pointed towards this. Like my own labyrinth in Plato’s cave, it wasn’t until I reached this opening when I realised that I was actually heading for something. Because if you had told me this destination seven years ago, or even three months ago, I would never have believed it. I never thought I was good enough. To be honest, I still question it every day.

I’m not one to believe in fate, but I wholeheartedly believe everything before this has been mere preparation for something bigger: that every time I wanted to give up, that every time I almost succumbed to the easy option and those times where I thought I just wouldn’t be able to do it, were not in vain. They slowly and quietly led to me to an opportunity: to this old brick road and this towering building before me. Every labour, every pushed limit, every breathless cheer were mere steps to give me the strength to get here.

I’ll open these centuries-old gates and tread those paths so many before me have laid their footprints. I’ll fight: I’ll fight for everything that has allowed me to be sitting in this history-laden room and prove to myself that I am good enough; that I was always good enough. I’ll continue to test those limits, to strive and keep striving until there is no horizon left to capture.

I may not have been able to call you up and tell you where I’m going  any more, but I know you’ll be there too. You always had some preconceived idea I’d wind up somewhere like this.

And chances are that this may not work out; maybe this isn’t actually where I’m headed, but yet another prolonged dead-end. But that’s fine. I’ll try my hardest anyway. Because I’ll make my way out of this labyrinth one day, and I know that I’ll do you proud no matter where it leads me.

‘L’.

I guess this is really happening.

I mean, I had always kind of believed that one day this would happen, but I never actually knew it would. It was more of an optimistic hope, or yearn or even helpless cling to reality that it could, one day. But I definitely did not think it would happen right now, or with you or this much.

A helpless form of awkwardness and helplessness grapples me, as I hold your head in my hands and whisper in your hair. The thoughts I had always silenced to the caverns of the back of my mind somehow tried to propel themselves into the fresh and open air. They seemed to want to be in the open where they could blossom, rather than being sentenced to their locked up cages. So I compromise. I murmur softly in your ruffled locks, far from the vicinity of your ears. I still said it, you just didn’t know I did. And that makes it safe.

And almost as if those delicate syllables diffused straight into your knowing, your head comes up for air and brings me in. An affirmation that this is safe; that this state of vulnerability doesn’t mean instability. One day those words can echo.

Slowly, as the absinthe in your iris intoxicates, the thoughts begin to linger a little more on my tongue. They gain depth and flavour and vigour.  They formulate themselves in a simple, yet heavy utterance. It would be over in just one breath. A simple movement of the mouth, a swift hushed voice, and you’d know. Those little talks and glimmers in my eyes would be made vocal. And I begin to curve my lips into a word, but my larynx closes shut. I’m not ready to let this go. I’d much rather live in my head where it’s much safer and calmer and risk-free.

So time somehow catapults us on the day of your birthday. After the laughs of friends who had imbibed far too much lulls to a quiet hush and the last clack of a heel stumbles through the door, I’m left in your arms. Somehow all those locked up thoughts have leaked into the whole vicinity of the room. It’s so tangible. It’s as if there are no words left to say, but I say them anyway. I use that dreaded word, the one with the ‘l’, and.

He’s still here. His arms are still around me, his skin glowing in the light only found at 4am and I’m safe. Along the way he said that he had always felt the same too. And that was it. And that’s it. Like that, I lay by his side and laugh at his jokes and finally feel that effulgence of  life and brilliance and know that it’s going to be okay.
Because I’m right. He’s different. He’s worth the wait.
He’s lovely.

Crumble.

I was never the kind of girl to let the past dictate my present, so I refuse to let your ghost jeopardise what is in front of me.

Because lately I’ve been walking down dark corridors, wondering whether I dare muster the courage to open yet another door. I’m being confronted with the same towering exit as before, and I don’t know whether I can risk facing the same fate  if I unbolt that lock.
Because you burned bridges for me. You built walls without my input, invisible to me until I realised some people just couldn’t pass through. Though we have not spoken, and probably will not speak, your sickly spirit dwells in every crack and crevice of every relationship. Those faded grey eyes streak every touch, and that faint caterwauling of your voice still whispers in my ear.
“He’s just like me. He’s holding you just like I did. He will do the same as me.”

I’m haunted, and in dire need of an exorcism. Because no matter how many times I embrace the calmness in the emerald of your eyes, I fear they may suddenly grey. I’m scared your clumsy mumble will stiffen and shriek. I’m scared I’ll open that door and fall into yet another chasm of betrayal and false hope, even though I know that you are safe.
Though I am certain that you are in no way like him, I can’t shake the clenching fear that you could one day change, just like he did.

Because all it takes is a flicker of light, a change in the weather, a drop in the ocean, for a person to change. All it takes is a step too far; a barrier too close to be broken for the light to burn out and fade. A fair face can just as easily become a scowl.
But I trust in you, and I trust your words. I will believe sense over zealous sensibility and refuse to let a sob story eradicate a happy ending. I will never stop saying it: you are worth it.

As the key fits into the lock, I prepare myself not for the worst, but the very best that I know you are.

Blurred lines.

Around this time I wrote a similar post to this  ( http://goo.gl/pibdwi ), writing about how, at some points, it feels like you’ve hit rock bottom. It’s those days where nothing goes right, and these days can just merge into weeks of the constant numb of expected sadness. Maybe it goes on for a month. Maybe a couple more. But at some point, you finally awake from your lonesome-induced coma and suddenly see colour; the once grey shadows suddenly have somewhat of a glisten; the burnt-out edges and broken parts gain a form of clarity.
Because you realise the world gets better. It just takes a little time.

And a little while ago, I scrawled my feelings across an old notebook in the middle of a library because that’s where I finally cracked, and let it all out. Sometimes that’s all you need: to just let it go.
But something, somewhere, inside of the scrawl and ramble makes me still want to share it. Much like last year, I couldn’t just leave it. Not because I had ever planned to post it, but something intrinsically hopes that someone out there may relate; that someone feeling distinctly smudged out may realise that they aren’t alone.

And it went like this:

“I feel almost like a blur; nothing particularly peculiar or broken, but just washed out and faded. Everything around me is just passing by so quick and invariably and yet I’m the one that is blurry. I’m just kind of sitting here and watching it go by. I’m not moving. I’m not going anywhere.

And a blur is quite fitting, because I lack clarity. I lack a sense of direction or purpose or even ambition. I’m just randomly spread out, spilt out, with no distinct line or edge or colour or depth.  Just a blotch on some other’s piece of paper.

And it isn’t pretty. Because blurs are forgettable and have no true place in a person’s mind; they’re too indistinct to have value, and yet not cryptic enough to decipher. So instead, they tear out that page of the book, imperfect in the presence of smudged out fingerprints and it’s thrown away. After all, what use to a person is a smudge?

So I kind of just lie here, crumple and forgotten, laying in my own blurriness, not even sure what I am myself.”

And just as history wonderfully tends to repeat itself, it got better. Because it always does, and when we’re in the middle of something we’re just too ignorant or preoccupied with feeling down to comprehend that things can change for the good.

Because it’s these broken parts and blurry edges which make everything so much better. They make up the bigger picture; they make the detail. Sometimes you just need to take that step to escape it all.

Sometimes you just need to take that step to escape it all. Sometimes the fire exit is right in front of you. Maybe it means just running into the inferno.
And whether it means letting a few tears let loose in the middle of a library or running down the street or finally saying ‘yes’ to that outstretched arm, we can get through this. Those lifeless weeks slowly fade into the distance, day by day. Things get that little bit brighter, and soon you’re free.
Soon you gain that colour and freedom and you realise that you were never thrown away. You were never forgotten and you were never lost.

You still had it together.

Thank you for staying.

Thank you for coming back.

Thank you for staying, when I really thought that you were lost.
I missed your mannerisms and faux nonchalance and the way you chuckle when you find something surprising. I missed the smell of your jacket and your cups of tea and the way you can’t leave your hair alone for five minutes. I missed you being the first person I run to when I’m excited or alone or crying or have any excuse to see you.

Because nothing was quite right when you were gone. Sure I could be happy, and sure I could get by quite fine, but something was unmistakably missing: I’d lost my dearest friend.
And maybe for a long part it was me who was missing. Because, for a while, it was you who was reaching out and there was no reply. There were so many nights where I almost called you and cried down the phone because the overwhelming nature of being unable to live with or without your presence was too much for me to hold. But the fear of another goodbye was too much for me to grant yet another hello. So I dug my head deep in the ground where your chuckle and smell and hair-touching couldn’t find me.

But living in deceit could never last. Because, darling, you have such a hold on me. You’re lovely and intoxicating and wonderful and brilliantly flawed. I knew it as soon as our faces next met. No matter how high the walls are, they will never prevent your from passing through. Because you make me happy, and I could never lose that joy you bring me. Not for anything.
You make life brighter and hopeful and comfortable, but not in the sense that could ever make me complacent. No, you’re so aggravatingly complex and poignant and so unlike the others. And you’re always there.

I just can’t escape from you.
But that’s okay. Because, honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Golden.

Some moments in life can only be described as golden: so exuberantly beautiful and precious, the memories of which will forever stain the walls of my heart. Moments like this make me truly treasure my youth; the moments where I feel infinite, where we all felt infinite, and felt like that time would never catch up with us: that we would never grow old, that we would never have to stop being young. Moments where we wished the night would never end, where we could have danced until dawn and played in the snow until frostbite devoured every last muscle.

Moments like these are so eternally inestimable, attempting to describe them will never be adequate. Moments like these are something that you feel; something you breathe; something that absorbs you. They’re the purest form of happiness, the most splendid glimmer of starlight, the only thing that matters in that very time and very place. In moments like this, everything is forgotten. Everything is perfect.

Everything is, and seems like it forever will be, right here and right now. Everything is golden.

Final reflections.

As I seem to enjoy to partake in a variety of clichés, what is the beginning of a new year without analysing and deciphering the past year? It’s fair to say that 2012 has been one of the most eventful years of my pretty short lifespan, but for me it has quite possibly been one of the most profound. (This is going to be a long one, I can only apologise in advance.)

Now, without trying to hyperbole too greatly, I pretty much started the year as a timid and extremely self-conscious girl. Though some of the later tendency seems to somewhat remain, the main dangerous issue of this whole predicament was the fact that I couldn’t be happy by myself. My self-worth, my self-esteem and my happiness lay in the hands of someone else, which is pretty much a disaster waiting to happen. Which it did. My walls of pseudo security and acceptance were shattered, leaving me alone and lost in the outside world that I shut myself from when I was so transfixed with another. For a while, I battled with this issue for so long, causing my life to be a fountain of regret, shame and guilt as the rain of heartache fell upon my shoulders whilst the storms grew evermore as this former lover attempted to wreak further havoc on my already blurred life.
But in fact, this was actually quite possibly one of the most beautiful times of my life. It was enlightenment; it was grace; it was awakening from a dark slumber into a much brighter world. I expected to be shunned by the people whom I had walked away from, I expected judgement from those who I had betrayed, but no. I was granted acceptance and love and ‘don’t be silly’s. Why? Because at that moment I had realised that I had true friends who I had never truly appreciated.

They say that you don’t find yourself until it’s you who you lose, and I couldn’t agree more. It’s truly the darkest moments in life which we grow from, the moments in which we mature and realise not to guilt ourselves from our mistakes, but learn. In this space I gained confidence, I gained determination and self-sufficiency. I realised I was worthy, that I was good enough and that I had potential. For the first time, I saw some form of excellence within me that was not achieved by someone else or shallow bragging, but from true emotional growth.

Now, the next half of the year was a blur of happiness, summer warmth and a high passion for the God who I had painstakingly abandoned in my selfish endeavours for a tangible form of love. It was a season of new hope, new interests and love. But it wasn’t the season of reaping, not even in autumn when I thought that I had met Mr. Perfect. It was a time of consolidation and further growth. Regardless to say, despite the oscillations of slight disappointments in this later part of the year where life didn’t quite go my way, and where I started to feel the chill of loneliness in the introduction of winter, the light never quite dimmed on life. I honestly can’t look back on the past 6 months without joy flowing throughout my being, because it was truly filled the most wonderful memories and dreams which I’m still enthralled by.

Right now, I am so content, yet so expectant of the coming year. I have already written about the coming excitements of the due new year and I am extremely excited, and curious, to what it has to throw at me. But for now, I look at this aging year and don’t think painfully of the pain that it caused me, but rejoice in the wonders that it instilled in me. I have gained so much from the past 12 months, with only losing a slight amount. This year I was lucky, and for that I could never be more grateful. My greatest accomplishments have come within this past year and these celebrations have not ceased quite yet.
The people, the dreams, the fears and rewards of this year have been truly tremendous. Laying this year to rest is much like throwing away a favourite childhood sweater: the sentiment holds itself dearly, but you know that it has long served its purpose. You know that it’s time to let go, and find yourself something more fitting: something new and something to wear in for a more mature version of yourself.

Have a wonderful new year.

Sunshine on the windowpane.

Lying here, staring at the comotion of the outside world, I can’t help but express my content with life.
Sunshine streaks the windowpane, casting the light in the deepest and dark crevices and illuminating these areas which had never experienced such brightness before. Particles as small and fragile as dusk are flung into the air, and contort in their own form of rhythmical dance, swirling below the ceiling and forming its own intricate universe of tiny flecks. Before the sun shone, this tiny grains could hardly be seen; they were worthless and meant nothing to the beholder. Yet, now the sun has hurtled these insignificant particles into the atmosphere, they form their own beauty and extravagance when they were previously overlooked.
This single moment reflects my life entirely.

After the months of pain, hardship and crying down the phone, life is so much bigger, brighter and more beautiful than what it used to be. I’m so happy and grateful and blessed, all I can do is marvel at all that I have been granted with. The parts of my life that previously had no relevance are now bursting with excitement and wonder, whilst all those dark shameful places in my heart have been overwhelmed by love.
I’m so content with life, there is nothing I demand or lust for.
All I can do I lie in awe, gasping at this wonderful transformation on my reformed life that spins above my head.