Exhaustion. and a labyrinth.

For conversations that only take place in the head. For days crossed off the calender. For the football and the pints that have replaced the pink and giggles. For unending episodes of Sex and the City. For being tired of being the listener. undocumented trains of thought. Songs and nightly walks. Rediscovering fiction. and not labelling. for not caring. for empty musings at the end of long days. for mediocrity and songs over shisha. or is it shisha over song. For the ME that overshadows all rationale expectations of time and people. For lists that will never be made. For selfishness that never ceases to surprise. For Santa on the tube in a glitzy shop window. and for not being connected and loving it. For Sundays that are my own. For walks around canals and high streets. For being okay. For laptops piled up and hairballs appearing out of nowhere. For disliking dirty bathrooms and my own writing. For blank pink diaries and dark tunnelly vision. For shutting out and peering in. For tweed frills and self-pity. For decisions inexplicable and a picture window looking out onto a tree-lined street. For bootlegged walked through misty rain. For unexpected long emails and tears in the shower. For tickets that hurtled through bad finances, emails and a 62 minute phonecall. For the lack of straps and wine-bottle-ashtrays. For uncertainty that comes with geography. For security in the lack thereof. For fears of losing the self to the familiar. for the fear of drowning time in people. For boys and men and a conversation over a canape. For being fiercely guarded by red keychains, the Atlantic ocean and the ubiquitous phone credit. For being the insignificant spot on the white bridge. For blue lights and my fifth bench.
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Of the sent and received:
I am looking for validation - of my twisted syntax and vacuum-packed, bubble-wrapped brain...

This city is home. It spells ME on the sides of buses, smudges on glitzy shop windows and the little pink dress that I would've never have worn before...the kind of squeal-inside-my-head-randomly-coz-am-all-alone-on-my-own-me joy is inexplicable outside

"with love and a hot trench coat"

Who knew that inadequacy would creep in on a Thursday evening, jostling with rain-limp hair and an unfamiliar bus ride? Just when I thought I was coming to terms, with coming to terms with the present. Inching my way through finally knowing to work a newly cut-key and reading at the headboard, and sleeping at the footboard. Never barefeet. But restless. Nestling in the couch of pride of straying, and steering through lines drawn by me. My self-respect and ego fiercely guarded by instinct...

Love? She asked me. you wouldn't acknowledge it if it announced itself as the next President of the United States. For all the fear, ego and bravado you know where you stand. You are spirited and you suddenly squint your eyes when you think. You like striped socks and you like cooking at 1am...

where after 4 pints you could recite wordsworth, there are 5 seasons here..they all include rain..bus number 6 takes you home...almost every indian buffet in town would compete at 7 pounds per head, at 8 pints down, you enact shakespeare..9 is too late for dinner, its almost time to tune into the bbc (again)..and 10... is the number of times you will debate with yourself every day...whether you want to stay or go .

...Because you let me down. and you left me alone...
And I wait. because that is what I chose to do.

...enough to make me cry on a busy street...I love you.

Don't make mountains.