Miles To Go...

It's 3.15am and I can't sleep. It's not the sound of next doors baby crying that's keepin me awake, well, that isn't helping I can assure you, please just shove a dummy in its mouth or something for heavens sake. It's not the fact that my mouth is aching with pain and aspiration from last weeks operation, and it's not the fact that I finally said no to my past, even after those cheeky drunk text messages reminicsing about how he liked it when....yeah you get the point i'm trying to make. I just needed to write. I feel like as though my head is full of people, characters, thoughts. They're all telling me different things and no matter how much I tell them "lights out, time for bed!"...they won't dissapear. woah, I just realised how much of a schitzophrenic I sound right about now. I mean, you look at a photo that holds your fondest memory and it suddenly takes you back to that place and spirit, you see a picture of a beach and summer and you're suddenly back there. Or you see a painting of paris and your instantly transported to the fantasy of a life you've never experienced. And I read, and I read and I read. I believe you can never be a writer without reading, experience and experiences allow you to become something, somebody, and so I read. And then I get attached. I never want a book to end because I start to get attached to the characters. I want to know more about why Mollie never knew her mum, or why Alice dyed her hair blonde when i'm sure it looked much better brunette, and why Brett just stood there and watched 'the one' get married to his best friend. I'm afraid i'll miss them when they're gone.
I guess it's how you miss your mum's favourite spag bol when you're away from home, or the way you suddenly wish you were a child again, remembering how you were told that 'school really is the best time of your life' by your Mum's Cousin's Brother's Auntie who you see only on those really important birthdays. But the way you miss your favourite shoes, you know, the ones with the holes in that speak to you when you walk down the street now that the sole is half hanging off. Yet they are the most comfiest thing you own. But life isn't a pair of shoes, and Brett isn't real. (Although I do wish he was; Tall, dark, handsome, floppy brown hair, his own downtown penthouse apartment...Hello Bretts of the world?!!!!) But when I write it is real. I want to inspire. I want to lift you up and knock you off your feet, embrace your soul. Writing is a gift I want to give to others, with a purpose to drown people in emotion. It's about connecting. Like the way you do with that seaside photo...and just like the way I miss him when he leaves. The way I never thought I would.

Much Love, Is xoxo