If you want to be free, be free

I am smitten. I cannot really even describe the feeling of strolling down the shoreline, with the sun just emerging from a wall of clouds, slowly revealing the mountain ahead bit by bit, slope by slope.  And the colour of the sea and sky with a lingering pink hue. Everything is the colour of glass. Or dark muddy brown, clay, coal, ochre... I am drinking it up. 

It is good to be alone here. 

Earth

Iceland does colour well. 

The British Library and King's Cross

Some lovely edges at the British Library. Had a jolt in my stomach too when I saw Jane Austen's writing desk; imagining the sweat of her elbow sinking into the leather as she leaned over her manuscripts, the spilt tea, ink-stained fingers and the frosty view over the looming hills of Bath. 

Hampstead Heath

Elysian dream

Arms wide open towards peril, you go as you have always done

Fuck him and his kind, they don’t know of the worlds you come from:

the muddy depths, the fisheye cold and towards the chasing of some Elysian idea

His kind know only of things seen, not felt;

the predictability of the curves and bends of the track, the electric click and the red signal 

They jolt out of daydreams filled with motion and speed, of falling or escaping 

They are children, they are not invited

Because you go alone, passing through, lessening like ice on salt

And you might not become happy, but at least you felt

Quit breaking my heart

So take the money and run to your man, I quit giving a fuck

The things I think I can be, the things I hope I can be

Only to find I can't

Only to open up, petal by petal, or peel by peel, like vinegar on wet paint

to find too many layers stripped back, raw and discovered 

in my stiff skin that remains unquenched, always hungry

 for a healthy dollop of saccharin sweetness, or of some oily substance 

not unlike human skin

To smooth over the edges, the painful folds

But the things I think I can be won't help me with this

because it has to hurt to be true

And I am a coward

Everything except for the sea

I want to stop but these cities won’t let me

To stop the clank of the machinery in the background only I can catch with an ear so attuned,

to escape trains packed tight like artisan sausages in mornings when I am woozy and weak,

to elude the smell of chlorine on soot - poorly scooped and wiped up,

to get away from the cramp of human musculature against the currents

And instead, go to a place completely still

Where no one kisses me like I was a gauzy fruit held to a lip, too ripe and ready for bruising

Where no one wants to look at the curvature above that is our darkened sky, with its invisible shards of light that can never reach us in time

Where no pretty thing comes inside to stay

Where never looking at a person you think you recognize home

Because these are the things that hurt 

So instead, I want to go to a place completely still, to grow still myself

To be still to stop wishing