Portugal

I saw a small bird face down into the dark and dangerous depths below. It bounced and swayed on the thin branch it balanced on. It looked down into the depths without fear, quietly waiting for the right moment - whatever that moment could be.

Then, without a second thought, it dove. It dove into the hole and was swallowed up by the darkness within. But then out it came once more, dipping and diving in and out of the crevice like it owned it. Like it knew all it's limitations and knew the very essence of the cave and trusted it completely. Every ebb and flow of the war below shooting inconsistent waves of air up to the surface. As if the wind was there as a gift for the bird, to aid it in its flight.

The sea painted the smoothed cliff face like veins charged with new life. The ocean feeds the cliff over and over and over.

The waves have reached their precipice, kissing the air before crashing apart once again.

The song and dance continues.

Sunday

The sun streamed into the open blinds, and I curse under my breath that I fell asleep before closing them properly last night.

He touched my side, between my underwear and upper thigh, and I shivered. I knew what this would lead to. He positioned himself over me and started grinding. It wasn't bad, but it was also half eight in the morning and I couldn't be bothered doing more than laying there - occasionally putting my arms around him to pull the short hairs on the back of his neck like I know he likes.

We were so far into our relationship that he no longer asked. He just acted until I would tell him to stop. It was easier if I never did. The day would go smoother.

He continued to grind on me, and then slowly unbuttoned my pyjama top and grabbed a fistful of breast in one hand - like they were his.

There was a thin line between the wall and the ceiling where the last tenant had missed repainting the room. Maybe I should use the paint we found in the cupboard to patch that up. Is that my job though? How could they not have noticed that? I could do a better job, and the most I've ever painted is a self portrait in art class, where the portrait was me reimagined as a can of cream of chicken soup. 

He rolled me over. 

Now, all I could see was the pilling starting to occur on the sheet below me. At least it was soft. And at least I didn't have to look at him anymore. 

Men are simple creatures: a handful of boob, morning sex, and food in the fridge. If men were simple, did that automatically make me complicated? 

I wanted to be simple too.

Changes

And then before you know it, you're sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by key chains and cats and tea cups.

Back to reality

Piles of paper

Holding memories

Stacked like coffee table books.

And then before I knew it I was remembering what it was like to travel the world, from afar.

I was no longer present: it was now in my past.

And I was different.

I was changed.

I wake up and forget where I am.

Oh, to know one home my whole life.

And now to be lost when I look out the window and see weeds and decking instead of squirrels and storm clouds.

And before I could blink, I was no longer wrapped in your arms for comfort but facing the future with forced independence and a facade of furled lips.

The shops have changed, the streets have grown, and new apartments block out the sheep that once roamed freely on my way to work. 

So I take a new route.

I get lost.

I adjust.

I learn.

And before I knew it, I learn that the funny thing about home is exactly what everyone has always told me: it's not a place. It's a feeling.

But I didn't take it with me. 

I feel I left it behind by accident because I didn't know I needed it. 

And now I wake up in the morning lost, disoriented, 

but radiant. A new beginning. A life loved.

The meaning of life is not the places, it's not even the music. It's the people and the memories and the feelings. It's creating and loving and living. Who knew?

The tears fall through streams of consciousness in the hazy light when I open my blinds and look outwards at my new beginnings.

Make your mark. See where it takes you next.

The purpose of life is to love and be loved: anywhere, always, everywhere.

And again.

All at once

 And then all at once I looked back into the darkness I had emerged from, on the longest, winding road, and I could see how far I had come.

I had arrived at a place I never could have imagined, with the softest raindrops washing me anew and wiping away my past.

And then all at once I began to see that I did not need anyone else; I was self reliant all along. I just needed a reminder.

And then all at once I had seen how far I still had to go, but for the first time in my life, I knew I could do it.

Eggs

I was Julia roberts in Runaway Bride: not knowing what kind of eggs I liked.

Am I a boiled girly? Do I like them fried? Do I prefer scrambled eggs?

I conform to my surroundings. 

I'm a vine winding around an abandoned room, trying to find the light amongst the slats of the boarded up windows, appeasing the one that waters me.

Between the silences

He makes us dinner.

I offered, but he tells me he's "got it."

I've never had dinner made for me before. The care taken; multi-step dish.

And we eat in the silence

with the birds' chirps softly outside our window and the soft yellow light of his lamps illuminating our plates.

And our spoons grazing ungracefully against our china bowls.

And between the silences I begin to heal.

Life isn't this; Life is this

life isn't a series of boxes to tick;

who has the biggest house?

the fattest payslip?

life isn't a competition;

there are no winners, no losers

we are just here to be

why is it never enough?

why do we run from simplicity?

Why can't we stop and     b e ?

Life isn't this, is it?

Life is but an adventure

Sitting on a worn-out sofa

forming new indents as we talk slow

and long at 3am.

Break the shackles that hold us down

That keep us grounded when we were born to fly.

Life isn't this; Life is this:

Life is our own making, our own choosing. 

Life is meaningful all on its own.

Why do we try so hard to make it ours?

Let it go.

Lemon yellow

 The leaves turn from an almost fluorescent green to a muted yellow.

Sunny splotches splattered all over it's branches, stretching out towards the clear blue sky.

The sun shines down, casting dark shadows across the fallen leaves.

Round, green fruits, slowly turn lemon yellow, forming in the early autumn air.

Soon we will have lemons.

Soon we will have lemons.

Lemons.

Lemons.

.

Versions of you

When I look at you

I do not see you now;

I see you for the first time 

In class

Wearing a singlet

Your wire-framed glasses

Your steady hands.

I see you on our first date

Engrossed in the movie

You'd already seen

Staring ahead, but looking at me.

I see you on the beach

Eating chips on the sand

Laughing loudly

With your Cheshire grin.

I see you at our wedding

Purple tie, grey suit

Squinting in the sunlight

Holding my gaze.

I see you tucked in bed

Blanket up to your chin

Arms splayed above your head

Glasses still hanging on your nose.

I see all versions of you:

Old, young

Past, present

I see you.

I see you.

Why - An original poem

I would ask myself why I wrote all of this down: why I feel the need to create things, knowing they won't last, knowing they won't change anyone, and won't change the world. 

The world will end and we will all cease to be, and there won't be anyone looking through abandoned houses reading journals and flipping through art books to appreciate the thoughts and feelings I had when I was 17. 

I would ask myself what the point of it all was: why we go through life trying to be happy, trying to hold on, trying to figure out what we're all here for - what I'm here for. 

.

.

.

I asked my therapist why I wrote this all down. Why I felt the need to create for a world that didn't value me, didn't care, wouldn't survive. And her answer resolved me.

Because it helps me now.

Because we live in the present.

Because we love in the present.

Because it aids in my own journey.

And just . . .

Because.

- Nicole