Coming Home

I'm home now and my feet are covered in blisters because after a month of scooting and clubbing and exploring barefoot I now have to confine my feet to little caves of plastic because I've been going to the theatre in Sydney and other nice grown up sounding things.

I didn't want to leave Canggu because I liked that most people there were staying long term and they were late-20s and okay with surfing all day for months at a time as if to say a big Fuck You to social norms. But now I'm home so here we are. I welcome the smell of eucalyptus and the cicadas and the birds. Nature's orchestra is glorious in Australia.

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I'm feeling a little lost and confused but it's nice to be home and to have a room to myself again. I moved the cobwebs from the hammock that hangs between the trees and sat with the cat on my lap and someone to write to. It's starting to mould and I'm waiting for it to buckle under my weight any day now but until then I will revel in the peace that it offers right by the water feature mum built last week. 

Last night someone with deep blue eyes held me close and told me I was beautiful. How meaningful that word becomes when someone looks you in the eyes, and cushions it in pauses. It transcends the superficial and penetrates that pulse behind your ribs. I believed it just for a moment. 

I've been reading 'The Lost Girl' by D. H. Lawrence on the train because a friend bought it for me at the second hand book store and I loved Lady Chatterley's Lover (but not Sons and Daughters) and my favourite place to read is the train. I wrote a lot last month and neglected my books so it's nice to feel the pages between my thumbs again.