Quill

It's been far too long; i miss writing.

The past month has been composed of some weeks filled with ancient intellect, roaming museums and once-great buildings, some weeks with an unnamable pensiveness, and others with friends, sun and as much grass as London can muster.

Oh and not to mention finding a house for next year, not forgetting finding my inner 1950s WI-type domestic goddess along with it. My sewing list has doubled already.

I've been both craving and dreading coming home, and 3 days in, my reasons for both have been well and truly played out. I came back on Thursday night to surprise my Mother for her birthday, and have since unpacked, earned a full day's wage, been to a metal gig, basically started a band, essentially trashed the front of the Radcliffe Camera, and longed to leave at any given opportunity.

Song writing starts tomorrow, let's see how long this goes on for before i remember that i won't get anywhere with music again. It's a teetering scale swinging between aiming for a goal, wanting recognition, a name; and an irrational need to make music for my very sanity, and because if i'm not a musician in some form, i don't know what i am. It feels a little ironic though, singing, writing lovesongs when i know nothing about anything... but if music isn't about love, then what the hell is it about?

Orchid.

Cloud

Oh. So this is what abandonment feels like.