Sunday, 30 January 2011


'They say that home should be where the heart is. So my heart should be here, within these walls of this house I’ve spent my whole life in. Within this town, where I hold many of my childhood memories. Home may be where the heart is for most people, but my heart flew away from ‘home’ on a dream long forgotten some time ago. A dream of riches and rush, a dream of majesty and meagre happiness. Not so much a dream, more the childhood fairytale of foreign lands and mystery, of fame and fortune. A fairytale where everything is perfect, where your knight in shining armour is exactly that, not some wannabe wrapped up in tin foil. Where your prince sweeps you off your feet to a magical fairytale castle situated in the candyfloss clouds, instead of leaving you to cry into a tearstained pillow, plagued by insomnia as you try to figure out where it all went wrong. A fairytale so few of us, if any at all, even begin to accomplish. A part of me, all of me, is still holding out for a segment of that fairytale, a part that I can look back on when I’m eighty and hard of hearing, and genuinely smile at the happiness I felt there once more. But who am I trying to kid? Fairytales are for the foolish and faint-hearted. Reality is for the strong and surly, for those whose dreams of castles stopped when they were seven. 
I guess I’m not that girl.'
I wrote this on 19th June last year, when I didn't know where home felt it resided. I was stuck between where I spent most of my time - London - and where I was born - Worthing. I felt torn between the two. Worthing is a town of lost causes and faded ambition. No one in this town will ever do anything exciting with their lives. They will sit at home and get good grades and get a normal job and probably never leave. London is a town rife with ambition and dreams coming true, everyday. But neither are where I belong. And I realise that now, because they don't hold what I desire most. 

Sunday, 16 January 2011

Old man

The man on the train who wouldn't stop talking to me read me like a book. "Its a terrible thing, to lose a loved one, isn't it?" He said, in such a way that I knew he was reflecting my pain, not his own. "Yes, it is terrible," I said, wondering how he had managed to know how I was feeling without my saying anything.
True, I haven't lost my loved one permanently; they are not dead, or on the other side of the world. 
But they are far away enough that I feel completely lost in myself. Far away enough that I feel like someone has ripped me up into little pieces. The old man had read my mind, read my face. An open book. 
No one should have to lose a loved one on any spectrum. Whether its once to death, or an infinite number of times to geography.
-D. xoxo