In the early hours of the morning is when each of my emotions is magnified ten times. My bed beckons but yet, i resist. Instead, i find myself looking at photographs (wedding photographs) and listening to “Read me to sleep” from the soundtrack of The English Patient, performed by the Academy of St Martin in the Fields.

(Some nights, one just needs to be held.)

This morning, I woke up to the sound of furniture being dragged across the floor in the apartment above me. Turns out we have some new neighbours who apparently have no concern for the poor, struggling student living below them. After some muesli, toast and a shower, i decided to take my mountain-high stack of readings and go to Corellis for some soy chai.
I found a seat inside, by the window, placed my order and waited for my chai, which arrived quickly. I begun my routine of lifting the lid off the teapot and marvelling at the froth sitting atop my tea. Using the strainer, i carefully poured the tea into my cup. I sipped some tea. More milky than usual but still good. I put in a teaspoonful of honey. Perfect.
There i sat, with my chai and a journal article. The sun was streaming through the window and the fan behind me made my hair fly gently about me. I felt more like me than i did an hour before.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, i spotted Nick who had just started his shift at Corellis; Nick who i hadn’t seen in weeks. Then followed an attempt to dink my chai, read and catch his eye. He changed the CD in the cafe and i heard familiar tunes- Bic Runga’s “Sway”, Oasis’ “Wonderwall” and something by Beth Orton i didn’t recognise. And then he said “Hey” and i looked into his eyes. It was a moment, friends. A moment with my waiter. We take what we can get.

Amidst the casual dropping of plates and trays (as is common in Corellis and is one of the reasons why i love this place so much), the whistling and the singing (or rather, badgering) along to “Wonderwall” by the bald chef, the number of people with their coffee and lunch orders, the desire to have an apple, plum and ginger muffin (but then the holding back) and Nick, i did my reading and finished it an hour and a half later.

I walked home, green flowy skirt swishing about me and the wind lifting my hair off of my back. Just another autumn day in Sydney.

Autumn sunshine. Like an unexpected but long-awaited for kiss. Your heart leaps and you cannot stop smiling. The warmth floods your soul but in steady progression. You feel it first on the outside and then seconds later, your insides melt. You get caught up in the sheer delight of the moment and the coldness you felt two minutes ago is forgotten. All you can think about is the here and now and the sense of release you feel as pent-up emotions are finally given a chance to be let out. You throw caution to the (cold) wind and a layer is peeled away. Why not. Life is about taking chances. Your hair glistens as you walk. And then, as suddenly as the sun appeared, it disappears behind a cloud. You break apart. The moment is over but the memory remains.

Waiting. And believing. Everything will turn out for the best. Nights spent drinking warm, sweet drinks. Days spent walking and reseaching. Remembering the smell of the ocean and the sheer, incomparable beauty of creation. The sudden descent of cold. The wish to forget for a moment and curl up in bed, warm, safe and protected. The realization that the journey has only just begun.

You call me beautiful. But you don’t even know me. You don’t know what makes me laugh crazily. You don’t know what makes my heart ache. You don’t know what makes me so mad, i want to scream into a pillow. You don’t know what my heart desires more than anything else in the world. You don’t know my Yesterdays. You don’t want to. You only see the present. Me. Now. A pretty face. All i am to you is another pretty face. I am a leaf in springtime- so green, so bright, so new. My barren past remains hidden. My brokenness i mask with perfume and lipstick. I am your perfect girl.

I am hit by an overwhelming desire to write; to create. Words, pictures, colours, lines, dots, stories, meaning. I feel as if something has lifted- inertia; the fear of creating. The desire came upon me suddenly as i walked from the research room to the library. A path i had walked hundreds of time before. I passed a girl with a takeaway coffee cup in her hand. She seemed to be wiping away tears discreetly. (There is a fire being ignited in my stomach.) I left the John Wooley buliding and emerged into a cloudy late afternoon. Droplets of rain began to fall. I make my way to the library and take the lift up to the seventh floor. It is dark and deserted. I grope in the dark looking for 779.93011. I turn the lights on. Suddenly, i realise that i’m in the photography section. Shelves and shelves of books on how to take photographs, how to manipulate them and how to read them. I feel like a part of me has come home. I am alone in the aisle (why is aisle spelt this way?). I sit and open books. Photograph after photograph of faces and landscapes. I can do this, i think to myself. Why am i not doing this, i ask myself. I leave with six books. I want to write my research. I want to to write. I want to take photographs. I want to draw. I want to paint. I want to let it out.