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Daily, Writing

Witta, Queensland

I thought I’d show you this, what life looks like with peace. Where the buzzing of the roads become rustling of the trees, I hope you fall in love with life outside the streets. Then maybe when we’re old, we’ll watch the free skies be. And maybe when we’re old, we’ll live our lives like this. When days and weeks and months, turn into years and years of bliss.


The things I’d tell you if you were dead

The things I’d tell you if you were dead

These things I’ve kept inside

I’d put it in a suicide note

But I’d rather if you died.

I wonder why it’s only then that these words will come to light

Perhaps because I really don’t want to hear your side.


Things I don’t know today

I don’t know if
I love you today
I know I enjoy
doing the things we do
Learning, traveling and
getting lazy with you
But I don’t know if
I love you today

I don’t know if
I want to see you today
I know I feel grateful for you
your care and your time
and all your weeks spent at mine
But I don’t know if
I want to see you today

I don’t know if
We can fix this today
Or tomorrow or when
Maybe talk about it, then
Make promises to change
Then see it happen again.


The nights are clearer

The night
The dark
The quiet

The bright lights not forced upon me
Gentle glitter outside my window
The sound of stillness all around me
My silent thoughts now finding flow
Imperfections become small matter
Life is easier when you don’t see me.

The day
The bright
The buzz

An alarm goes off, it’s starting
A flurry, for coffee, it’s morning
The pressure of life, and living
Moving, climbing, the clock is ticking
I carry the weight of the day.



If Paris took my breath away, you were the one that took my heart. Your laughter was infectious as you pulled us along to dance. Opened your palms to the skies and so did we, entranced. Thank you for being honest, for being real and an open book. Till next time Barcelona, adios. We’ll be back for chapter dos.




Oh what a mystique she holds
Her features so individually perfect
Form a face you’ve not seen before
Those deep-set eyes, with all those stories, and that wrinkle beside the blue.
And oh what grace she carries. Not for you, though she knows you stare.
Don’t look at the dirt, no one’s perfect. Just smile and she’ll smile right back.
Be careful though, she has many lovers, be careful please, she doesn’t love you.


In Nice

For where else would we sit for hours? In the blazing sun. Where else would we dunk our bodies? In such salty water. In Nice, where we’re faced with beauty, the light and dark of blues. In Nice, where the pebbles meet you, (our names on one among them). In Nice, with a glass in your hand.




There’s an invisible thread running through us. A huge invisible ribbon ties us together. We’re not the same person, but we’re always parallel. Not the same soul, but somehow linked. Weird, how we become an entity. Weird, how people expect the connection.

But how easy it would be for either to leave, to break the association. Imagine a break so clean and so swift that leaves nobody behind. So smooth and peaceful that nobody cares. Not even the other person, who moves on, like the connection never happened. Like the thread dissolved into nothing. The thread that was invisible in the first place.


Will you let me use you?

Be here for me when I need you, then go when I no longer do.
Only speak when I want you to, Hughes wrote a script for you.
Can you laugh with me and at me – but never enough to hurt?
Teach me beautiful things, then hold me, we’ll never be at war.
The fields they have been waiting, the grass become so soft.
We’ll paint pictures and stories with the clouds on our palette.
(We’ll always go too far)
Sparks will write our story, the end will be read with tears.
But will you let me use you? I won’t make it up to you.


I’ll be a dream

We don’t talk anymore but that’s okay. You don’t call anymore, and that’s just fine. We don’t laugh anymore, not like before. You don’t cry anymore, that’s just me. It’s life, and we’re not the same people we used to be.

I didn’t want to let go because I was afraid of missing out on something that could’ve been, but the my hands are getting blisters from holding on, and we’re ruining good memories with bad ones.

So I’m finally letting it all go, because I know it will get better. Holding on is always the more difficult option. It confuses me greatly, because it’s the in-between. Holding on is suspended in mid-air, between all and nothing, and it requires an accurate control of expectations, an in-between kind of relationship.

Letting go is more befitting in this story. Letting go requires just a loosening of the grasp. It is in the extreme; so all energy is focused on just the act of release. Letting go promises a relief, and that’s what I hope it brings to us both.

One day, we won’t miss it anymore. And I’ll be a dream you dreamt you had.