It's the way this city of mine fills my lungs and pores with the hymns of love, life and longing. I stride between this world of iridescent textures and the ephemeral plain of a wordless commune littered by flickering stars.And I think I can be of this world even as I am without.
I am raw today.My book is open and exposed. Embedded in the thin bent spine are the jagged torn edges of missing pages. Words that worried upon my skin like a prickly woolly sweater. It dug into my armpits and crush my chest ruthlessly. No matter how much I pulled and stretched, it refused to fit. Even as I tear it off, its serrated rip-rip-rip accused me of cowardice, failure and defeat.There are dog eared corners left by a past self for this future me. Reminding her to come to it again on these hard days.
It was our last day in Port Macquarie. We had driven to Tacking Point to see Australia's 13th oldest lighthouse. It was also our last holiday together. A memory of the extraordinary moments in our ordinary days with the people who would go on to leave such lasting images of love in our lives.
I wonder how many of us were similarly misdiagnosed and misunderstood as children? The contemplative child wrongly labelled as shy. The passionate child wrongly labelled as angry. What if we could rewrite the narrative that was written for us?