postcards from france
Solitude washes over me like the summer sun.
I'm picking up books for the first time in ages, scribbling madly in my journal, sewing by hand, making elaborate meals and bringing colour to an old sketchbook. It's through these things, working with my hands, that I release tension and remember who I am.
The house scared me at first. The silence felt so much louder than the sirens in the city. I would wake up, and think "Why bother?" before crawling back into bed.
And then I went for a walk. I feel as if a theatrical curtain has been pulled back and revealed nature to me. I stop and inspect flowers, then suddenly break into a run just to feel the road under my feet. Every time I take an unkown path I'm pleasantly surprised. I pay attention to the small things: the way the air changes wether you're walking on grass or pavement, the way the landscape changes at different hours of the day. I sat and watched the sunset last night, knees pulled up to my chest, my mouth open in amazement. When I turned around to walk home I was faced with the most beautiful moon I'd ever seen. "Oh my god," escaped my Canadian lips. It was the biggest, most plump, golden moon I have ever seen.
I sit in silence for long periods at a time and think. Of course there are times I think too hard, hateful words or criticism dancing through my head like demons. But I face these demons by looking into them, finding out why they bother me, and becoming stronger in myself. I'm so tired of apologizing for breathing. Tired of waiting for someone who doesn't show up. Tired of listening to people who only push me deeper into the ground. I'm trying to teach myself to stand up and speak up.
I wrote in a letter to a friend that I was always running. Running from something, unable to determine what. It is just now that I realize that that's not it all. I'm running, and have got to keep running, but I'm not running away from anything. I am running towards something, a dream of independence, and living a life I want to be in.
Today I'm feeling very weak and tired, but was delivered my mother's old labtop, from the heavens which we have named FedEx. God bless the post.
Although I have gladly been cleansed of modern technology, this is a powerful tool. The world is suddenly at my fingertips, and the writing flows smoother than Absolute Vodka when a keyboard is involved.
Miles away, in this miniscule village, I'm connected.
***
finally in paris
some parisian prostitute
red smoke left from three jets, lining the sky with colours of the french flag
a real life postcard, before my eyes
a change in scenery
from my window
the virgin, who overlooks the countryside, perched on a hill
my writing space
basking
I'm picking up books for the first time in ages, scribbling madly in my journal, sewing by hand, making elaborate meals and bringing colour to an old sketchbook. It's through these things, working with my hands, that I release tension and remember who I am.
The house scared me at first. The silence felt so much louder than the sirens in the city. I would wake up, and think "Why bother?" before crawling back into bed.
And then I went for a walk. I feel as if a theatrical curtain has been pulled back and revealed nature to me. I stop and inspect flowers, then suddenly break into a run just to feel the road under my feet. Every time I take an unkown path I'm pleasantly surprised. I pay attention to the small things: the way the air changes wether you're walking on grass or pavement, the way the landscape changes at different hours of the day. I sat and watched the sunset last night, knees pulled up to my chest, my mouth open in amazement. When I turned around to walk home I was faced with the most beautiful moon I'd ever seen. "Oh my god," escaped my Canadian lips. It was the biggest, most plump, golden moon I have ever seen.
I sit in silence for long periods at a time and think. Of course there are times I think too hard, hateful words or criticism dancing through my head like demons. But I face these demons by looking into them, finding out why they bother me, and becoming stronger in myself. I'm so tired of apologizing for breathing. Tired of waiting for someone who doesn't show up. Tired of listening to people who only push me deeper into the ground. I'm trying to teach myself to stand up and speak up.
I wrote in a letter to a friend that I was always running. Running from something, unable to determine what. It is just now that I realize that that's not it all. I'm running, and have got to keep running, but I'm not running away from anything. I am running towards something, a dream of independence, and living a life I want to be in.
Today I'm feeling very weak and tired, but was delivered my mother's old labtop, from the heavens which we have named FedEx. God bless the post.
Although I have gladly been cleansed of modern technology, this is a powerful tool. The world is suddenly at my fingertips, and the writing flows smoother than Absolute Vodka when a keyboard is involved.
Miles away, in this miniscule village, I'm connected.
***
finally in paris
some parisian prostitute
red smoke left from three jets, lining the sky with colours of the french flag
a real life postcard, before my eyes
a change in scenery
from my window
the virgin, who overlooks the countryside, perched on a hill
my writing space
basking
posted by Gillian Young at 9:09 AM
1 Comments:
That's it! I'm booking a flight right now! :)
(just kidding, but wow does that view from your window look so incredibly appealing to me - I like solitude and quiet, but then I've always kind of been like that...)
Jenn in NJ
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