Having lived a prosaic yet beautiful (and not quite over) summer of travel, I have since come home, bought new (fancy) running trainers, cancelled my Estrid subscription (pile up), watched the Barbie film (excellent) and tried desperately to think of the direction I want to take this website in. I am still trying to figure the last one out.

I started writing poetry (badly), putting it on here (arguably worse) and believed that the resolution to periods of overthinking whilst solo travelling was writing (I will be the first person to tell you this is not possible). I refuse to believe that half the stories I have from the past few weeks exist only in my memory and, therefore, subject every new person I meet to a dramatic retelling so they too can be a part of it. I also refuse to believe that I will probably never meet most of the people I met again. This is solved however, as I acquired a large number on Instagram. If the urge to search what they are up to ever materialises.

Film: Chungking Express, which led to:

Song: Dreams by The Cranberries

Performing autopsies on a perpetuum mobile

Returning with my copy of The Master and Margarita 
Sun stained 
Unread
And yet margaritas mastered 

in the threshold between day and evening and evening and night 
But really often only that sweet spot of an evening 

where you existed
in conversations that had not been had 
and between the continuum underlined in books then passed onto strangers,
extending a hand towards a tangible feeling that something was moving forward
even if it was not me.

Because it is true that 
I have performed autopsies on a perpetuum mobile 
too many times 
in which a conclusion 
becomes the introduction 
and the journey 
recommences 
only to decide it’s returning.