My window is cracked open and I can see exactly half of the moon. French music makes me homesick for Paris. If it is possible to be homesick for a place you only spent five days in… jepense que c’est possible.
The cool summer air (yes ‘cool’… be jealous) comes in through the open window and I feel the inconsolable urge to fill up the last remaining pages in my notebook. As well, my pen decides to expire with the pages and start to run out of ink.
I read just a few days ago that some writers write to prevent their experiences from disappearing and being forgotten. (or something more poetic than that) Perhaps that’s what I am afraid of as well. So here. I share this with you.
I think too much. It’s true. I think so much that my head can’t contain all my thoughts and so they usually spill out onto pages, onto keyboards, into eardrums until other people too come to see that I think too much. I would say 90% of my time here in Scotland I have spent thinking. For anyone who has been away from home for more than a few months, you will know too that what you left behind of yourself eventually finds you again with time. Set out to reinvent my life I have only discovered I cannot paint myself. Things that make me ME come from unexpected experiences, discoveries, circumstances… Perhaps opening up the curtains after 4 days stuck in my sickbed has made me appreciate myself and my world more. I could learn a lot from this little girl:
Ultimately, life is silly. It is silly to be scared of meeting new people. It is silly to judge people. It is silly to be practical.
I am aiming for an approval of my younger self from my older self. When I near the end of my life, I do not want to kick myself for not seeing things in the right way. Just imagine yourself 50 years from now… do you want to regret not doing things because at the time they seemed impractical? I don’t. No ma’am.
Music can often put things in perspective.
The past was once the present, you know. It’s comforting to think how similar they are. There were once people just like us who had the same problems, the same questions. Then they got older, received answers to their questions and saw the reasons for things happening the way they did. There was wisdom and hopefully, clarity.
To affirm that life is what it is, it goes, it ends, and then new life begins.
Pretty much since we moved here, Ali and I have been dying to get our haircut at the Snip N Sip. I have had the business card tacked on my wall for months and months. Since Ali is leaving in a few weeks, and since the accumulation of hair in my shower drain is getting ridiculous, we decided to bite the bullet and make the appointment so we could finally check it off our list. After a few wee coffees in the Forest cafe we shuffled next door and met Magda, our Polish hair designer for the afternoon, who promptly offered us two shots of honey vodka. “Na zdrowie!” She told us of her humble beginnings cutting hair in the stairwells of hostels and of her many Edinburgh Fringe Festival lovers and her yacht and her tree house. She snipped, we sipped, and then Ali and I took our sexy selves to the mosque kitchen for some sag aloo and rice and then parted ways. Ali and her flirty bangs strolled off back to her flat as I rambled home only to happen upon a spontaneous parade coming from the Meadows. I’m still not sure what we were celebrating, but I enjoyed the drums and flutes nonetheless.
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