Church

What a week.

God, I hate that phrase, but really, what a week.

It has been carefully composed of some unforgettable days, with unforgettable people; forgivable days, with certainly forgettable people, and of course, the Sabbath, a day for no work (broken), and quiet reflection on the crap that you don't have to think about on weekdays.

My mind is fairly insane right now- it's a week since I got back from Ghana, with so much that we did, achieved, so much to tell, to write- and all I can think of is who I am.

Who I am.

Who I am??

Who cares? I thought I hardly did, and the thought of soul-searching somewhat disgusts me, but here I am, thinking about what 'everybody else must think of me' and how 'I'm a poor excuse for a human being, especially more so for a woman'; and worrying, eyebrows curved permanently into a distant seagull, of 'what should become of me' in the future.

And this isn't the anxiety of a day, one that can be blown away forever by the good words of a friend, or a song I've been missing. It's one that waxes and wanes- given enough time to ponder- and I don't know how to fix.

In similar news, here are some being-back-again vows:

I shall take up pilates.

I shall take a photo of myself everytime I cry. I cry far too much for my own good, and bizarre as it may be, I think recording every occasion on which I do cry will help me stop... crying is often very self-indulgent, and maybe I can embarrass myself into becoming less melodramatic.

Last thing- I shall begin to use the word 'I' less often.

It's a rather poor excuse for the subject of a sentence.

Orchid.

Jade

I dont' think anything on the internet has ever made me smile so much:

"Today I was driving by the lake and I saw a Jeep full of guys pass me. They were hanging out the windows and the sunroof, paddling with canoe paddles, and singing "Just Around the Riverbend" from Pocahontas. It easily may have been the coolest thing I've seen, ever. MLIA"

Yep, I'd say that's about it for today.

Orchid.

40,000 Knots

On Wednesday afternoon, looking out onto a rain-drenched Deutschland, I suddenly realised that: 2 weeks ago exactly, I was marching swiftly through central London; 1 week ago exactly, I  was drifting through some Oxonian field; 1 week later I would be sleeping in Cairo, and 2 weeks later I would be haggling for a band, studio time, and some materials for film props in a market in Accra. 

Sweet.

The past few days in Cologne have been amazing. I saw absolutely nothing of Germany aside from multiple, slightly-different-from-British H&Ms- God bless H&M, really, truly- and made up for a lot of lost time with a small corner of my family, staying up until the early hours talking, laughing, crying. 

And so begins the rush to get packed, organised- not to mention insured- for Ghana, see a few more of my dearest, and head off... first on my list is getting my copy of Teach yourself Turkish... why not?!

Orchid.

Softly

All the leaves stuck to the soles of my feet, the dirt under my fingernails, the words I can't quite get my tongue around, the grace of a young lady, not quite yet acquired, are the vowels of what makes up me. They don't create the most beautiful syntax, but they are all I have.

So I'm going to hold onto them, tightly, softly.

Orchid.

Red

Listen, you little wiseacre: I'm smart; you're dumb; I'm big, you're little; I'm right, you're wrong, and there's nothing you can do about it.

My ex-stepfather found out about my tattoo today. This was bad. Bad. Not least because I calmly had said a few days before that I had my opinions about tattoos and he had his- incorrect: I do not understand the meaning of the word opinion, I, at 19 years old cannot have opinions, and if what I voice differs from what is said by his Highness himself, it is frankly, false.

My tattoo is a stupid idea, detracting from my main goal in life (which is to become a Professor, for all, including myself, who didn't know), and if it was a good idea and I wasn't ashamed of it I'd have it on my face. It is also no different from if I had got knocked up or hooked on crack.

I'm small, I mean nothing, there is never any reasoning behind decisions I take, everything I choose is out of stupid youthful lust for the unknown, and I am sorely mistaken if I ever believe that I am somewhat more intelligent or knowledgeable than Sir Disdain.

If I am spoken to like a five-year-old, I will respond accordingly. Please await your punishment, in the form of hats, superglue, and swapped hair lotions, Sire.

India Ink

God I love my friends. They're brilliant, fabulous, wonderful, everything, everything I could want and more. Perhaps it's because it is summer.

No.

Over the past one or two years, I have felt more and more complete and perfect with the people I have around me, and through all this time, I never cease to hear the comment "your friends are so nice!", as if this isn't expected, or normal, as if surprised. Maybe it is slightly odd that I am so blessed, maybe others are not.

After work yesterday I went to my friend's birthday gathering at a most certainly overpriced bar (more expensive than London, £1.50 for a soda lime, I kid you not), and saw all my friends from school. Well the majority of them. To put a wider grin on my face, Josh came to visit me in Oxford today. We went to Maxwells to visit Ben, and ended up spending hours there.

Ben, you are the actual best person in the whole world. The world.

Love,

Orchid

Glare

I'm starting to panic slightly about losing the summer, the real summer where you run around in basically a sheet & your little wicker basket on your bike & all that matters is being free.

I don't like my white dresses & my bicycle is broken.