simple words on a page

I have this postcard that I picked up in a cafe in London.

Apparently, it's going to be ok.

I laughed when I saw it and vowed to send it to people I knew.

Instead, it sits here and reminds me.

Appropriately fitting right now, I tell myself this affirmation often.

The housing will sort itself out, as will work.

You will stop feeling helpless at some point in the next few weeks.

It's going to be ok.

Despite the papered reassurance, my brain isn't convinced.

Perhaps if I stare it just a little longer... it will eventually sink in.

day eighteen

crying in the shower after such confusion.

a lovely afternoon with friends to replace the argument with a sister,

an evening returning, a serious conversation and it doesn't take much for me to tick.

already feeling so foreign in this house, i now feel like some sort of failure.

teaching's not good enough and no point doing masters...

apparently it's time for a career change.

trying to find my feet in this country and this house,

now is not the time to suggest uprooting the only stability i have.

the need for them to be happy for me, that i am happy in my life.

isn't that what it is all about?

retreating to bed with a rug around me,

i hope it will protect me from further thoughts of disappointment.

these walls that make a house

These walls don't make a home because you don't allow it to be.

Your questions and deadlines,

your biased and insincere attitude make me feel like a stranger in my own room.

The silence and the shuffling.

The lies and fake smiles.

I clearly mean nothing to you.

Yet if anyone asks you would conveniently tell them that I'm great,

because it suits you to 'fit the appearance'.

I feel like I can never do or say the right thing,

that I am huge intrusion to your peaceful paired existence.

And yet, despite all this... your hostility and your hesitant nature to care about someone other then your blood, I would forgive you and move on if you just gave a shit.

If you ever asked a genuine question and waited to hear the answer.

If you ever responded to my text messages about being home for dinner.

If you ever did anything that resembled motherly affection - and consistently,

just not when it suited you.

Instead I sit quietly in my room and not get spoken to.

I get nervous about whether I am home for dinner or not.

I apologise for getting in the way, in a space that should be my own.

I feel more alone when you are here then when I am literally, on my own.

I wait patiently for you to show some sort of real honesty with me.

So I will wait... continue to wait.

For something that I know, may never really come.

Day Six

Day six and I am back at school.

The same school that I physically left two years ago,

the same school that emotionally and mentally I seem to still have left now.

Children listen and respond with kindness,

and I find myself giggling with confusion.

They are clicky with each other and invasive in the teachers lives,

yet I find that annoying rather then endearing.

I walk around, almost feeling like I have gone backwards in so many ways.

London... when did that happen?

I changed... so what.

Day six and I am confused about who I am as a teacher and what I am doing at this place.

Day 2

Day two and already I feel displaced.

It all seems so normal, so routine.

It's like I never left.

Yet this funny space in my heart feels... soft. And a little weak.

It's the part that already misses the laughter and madness; the chaos that is London.

Perfectly normal and no doubt lingering -

I long for that teleport machine to take me back for a cuddle and a wine...

then back here to the routine.

To the comfort of being at home:

just after I get the fix I need to stop the confusion.

Radio Swiss Jazz

Awaking foggy and mucus headed, the buffet breakfast was the only thing calling my name.

A cup of tea with honey and a plate of fruit - heaven.

Such bliss in such small comforts.

Feeling less then average, Granada's magical streets held little appeal, and so back to bed I went.

Awaking again, relaxed yet still sleepy, I headed down to the pool.

Banter, sunshine and giggles...bliss at home, blessed to be in another country with a dear friend.

A horrendous lunch and a confused middle zen, the room again had me at hello.

A little siesta waiting for a wench to ready herself...

finally we were ready to explore.

Tiny streets, pharmacy confusion and a glam boutique goodbye gift - little else could please us.

A quiet garden with a water feature, a sign for 'Bohemia Jazz Cafe' and a closed looking window...

thankfully not so.

Walls lined with books, old records, musical instruments and jazz posters from the 1930's;

we had found a 'secret wardrobe'.

Faces of locals filled the tables and jazz was literally everywhere.

Men playing saxophones, upside-down tea pots, oversized medicinal looking jars filled with ales and vinegars - clocks in every corner.

It was nothing short of a page out of a new york jazz picture book, yet in the middle of Spain.

Little bulls and Spanish menus the only give away.

Four pianos called my name and guitars quietly strummed.

The trumpet in front of us alerted it's presence.

Feet tapped and people swayed.

Wine was drunk.

What a turn around -

Fogginess to 'Fantastico' with Fabulous Friend!

Counting Down

I find myself walking the streets of Barcelona, and counting down the days.

Three more nights in this hostel, you will be fine.

Six more days till you have Charlie, you will be fine.

Twenty-one more days till your under his wing, you will be fine.

For someone who once thrived on this, the change is drastic and confusing.

My clenched stomach, specifically at night,

makes me want to stay indoors rather then aimlessly wander.

My intolerance of hostels and the people,

makes me spend money on comfort and solitude rather then social bedlam.

I feel privileged and thankful for being here;

but excited already for it to come to an end.

Has my passion for travelling faded away?

Have I lost the courage that I once had and should now seek solace from staying put?

Maybe it's none of the above and I am merely caught in a moment.

All I do know now,

is I find myself saying at least once I day.

I want to go home.

I am ready to go home.