Saturday, 27 November 2010


I'm lying on my childhood bed, in my childhood room watching a Sandra Bullock movie and feeling about 16 years old. It's so strange to be in my parents' house again, in my old room with the window that let in the light every day of my adolescence. I had so many dreams here. So many fears. But every day the sun would rise over me, and that friendly warmth always reminded me that there will be a tomorrow.

I didn't often feel warm there. I was gawky; unlike other girls. I didn't know who I was or what I was going to be. I wanted to be accepted but I wanted to be different too. I wanted to be something, so unsure and yet so certain that there was something out there that I was supposed to do. Something that mattered.

There are no ghosts here. I thought there would be, little hauntings of that girl. A little girl with almost black hair down to her waist with no style that had only ever seen the scissors of her mother. Eyebrows that desperately needed a wax so that anyone else could notice the longest black eyelashes that most people had ever seen. Such a stupid thing to be attached to, but the only thing she knew that was perfect about her.

A little girl who listened to Pachelbel and read Tennyson in between drawing diagrams to prove Pythagoras' theorem. I don't do enough of that any more. Or enough watching terrible romantic comedy movies that have me crying even though (Or perhpas because) they're terrible.

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