I don’t have enough power within me to
Exhale the smoke from my mouth.
This is what you
Do to me.
And the chaotic busyness
In my stomach is
It’s the feeling of something or
Digging their way down deeper and
Awkwardly trying to get to the
Where I feel just as
Empty as a vase full of
Desperately trying to
Suck in water that would give it
I move my cursor to the top right of my screen…”write“, it says. I click on it as it’s too enticing not to.
It’s Sunday and for the first time in months, I haven’t got any work to do. It’s weird. I love my job. I am writer. It sounds so lovely to say even lovelier to say out loud. I work seven days a week. I told myself today would be all about reading poetry and relaxing, but in all honesty—I am so fucking bored.
I did read poetry, dark poetry—Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur. Her poetry is so simple, like anyone could have written it. But at the same time, it has an effect on me. Her words don’t need to be deciphered, twisted, and analysed like the long and strange poetry we were forced to read in high school. They’re straightforward, and true. Perhaps that is why they have an effect on me… that and her brave account of how badly men have treated her.
I’m home in South Africa for now, and I have almost no stress at all. It’s weird. I sit beside the ocean and write. I hear the stillness of the night, I breathe fresh air, I feel the sun on my skin. I feel reality. It’s now my business to know what everyone is getting up to in their lives—and while I couldn’t really care, it’s sometimes nice.
These are my thoughts as the day—and week—come to a close.
Have a happy week, everyone.
I am in need of guidance. While compulsively snapshotting the amazing view of Barcelona, I took a moment to sit quietly, look out and pray. I need something bigger than me to give me the answers. I hope that I find what I am looking for soon.
Hello, from Barcelona.
I’ve moved once again and before I go on an enormous rant about how I move cities/countries and/or jobs every one to six months, I’m going to stop myself. Yes, I feel like a flake and somewhat of a loser, but in my defence I am trying to find myself. I’ve experienced a job I love in a city I hate, and a job I hate in a city I love. Now, I’m finding the perfect fit so that I can continue to be inspired.
While I feel somewhat inspired right now (Barcelona is fucking fantastic. I look up at the architecture every day and feel utterly speechless at the beauty), I know that I haven’t found what I am looking for. It often leaves me feeling uneasy, incomplete, lonely, and or sad.
I went home to South Africa about a month ago and it was weird. I wasn’t bright eyed, I wasn’t like a tourist in my own city. In fact, I barely felt a thing… until I stood at the boarding gate with my brother. He could see something was missing. He felt something that I hide from the world.
What is it though?
After almost seven weeks in a brand new country, you would think that I would have a lot to say. In actuality, I’m struggling to find my words. The age old irony of the writer that has lost her words.
While I felt immense dread before coming to Spain, I naively had a thought that perhaps things would be different for me. Surely there is a place, a man, and a career out there in one or other country waiting for me to grab it? Sadly, Spain has proven to be quite a let down and truthfully… it’s all my fault.
I was silly to think that I could go back to ESL teaching after having experience a life as a professional writer. I fooled myself in believing that Spain would hold adventure and love for me, and that it wouldn’t matter what job I had if I was living in one of the most breathtaking countries in the world. This is one of many lies I have told myself.
I am living a lifeless life. I don’t speak the language. I have no friends. I am about to embark on a career that I don’t love while giving up on one that I do… and it’s all my fault.
I’ve taken a million steps backwards in my quest for happiness and I am overcome with guilt. I’m stuck and I don’t know how to get out without upsetting someone. Help.
I left London. I left the chaos of London. I left the disappointment of England. I left behind the love/hate relationship that I was in with the country, with the city. While I know that living there made my dreams come true, professionally, I feel as though I have failed.
Losing my job at the only company that I loved, was heartbreaking. I feel as though I had it all and now, I have nothing. The experience left me with skills that are irreplaceable and while I am still doing what I love, writing, England had a way of chewing me up and spitting me out, on many occasions. That is why I will always love and hate London.
I left it, though. “You are really living your best life,” my friends say. Truth is, I am jumping from country to country, pretending to love the adventure when in actuality, all I am searching for is love and happiness. Will I find it in Spain? I hope so.
For 22 years, I drifted my way through life. I rarely felt passion, I acted carelessly and I gave myself away too freely. What did it matter, though? I didn’t need to do anything substantial because I was constantly being taken care of by people in my life. My parents paid for everything, my friends took care of me when I was too drunk to get home and I didn’t have my first job until I finished university. Life was a mere spectacle. People loved my stories of how I ended up in dangerous situations and I loved telling them. I have always lived for adventure – the destructive kind.
I spent five years studying a degree I didn’t care about – little did I know, that it was this degree that would land in me in places I had only dreamed of. I ended up spending four years in Korea, teaching English, meeting locals and other foreigners, experiencing things that I thought were fascinating yet strange at the same time. I knew I had to take advantage of this situation, I knew that I was destined for more than a scandalous story.
I booked tickets to countries that excited me as often as I could. One such time, I ended up on Boracay Island in the Philippines on a solo trip. My hotel room overlooked the sky-blue ocean, great palm trees and the sun beamed into the full-length windows like rays of happiness. My bed was decorated with my favourite flower – the frangipani. Regardless of the abundance of geckos and lizards (my worst fear), I breathed in life. I talked with the locals who taught me about humility. I learned about the island in all its beauty that was jaded by social issues. The people were poor, but they were happy.
I visited a piercing and tattoo parlour on the beach and decided I would get my first tattoo – an outline of Africa on my back. It’s not big and it’s not magnificent but it is meaningful. After all those years I spent trudging through a boring and predictable life, here I was in the middle of nowhere, by myself, with a permanent symbol on my back that reminds me of who I was, who I am and where I come from. Africa will always be home.
No matter where I go (and I plan to go everywhere), Africa will always have my heart because now, I am in a place where I can truly love and admire the beauty of my home country, the inspiring people that encouraged me to live my best life and the astounding diversity that makes this world spectacular. I no longer crave destructive adventure – just, adventure.