Everything Is Grey

I went to the sea today. The salt air coated my lungs, bonded with the tar inside and everything was expelled when I exhaled out. Standing on the balcony overlooking the sea as the sun rose was something I hadn’t done in the longest time. I almost forgot that this was a thing that I could do. That it was something that exists and that it’s not just a figment of my imagination. The late January air was sweet with a light chill. It kissed my tired and blood filled cheeks. Every passing moment only made me want to capture it in any way that I could. I climbed down the fire escape of the hotel and ran across the road without even checking for traffic. The wind was gentle and my ears were filled with the roars of the ocean waves singing hymns of welcome to me. I raised my Nikon and began to shoot. I wanted to capture every precious second on film, even though I knew it was foolish to believe that I could. I inched farther to the sea as the sun ascended higher into the morning sky. Rich pinks, brilliant oranges and royal golds blended in with the grey-blue of the night. The colours of the sky were delicately reflected in the roaring metallic grey-brown of the sea. I inched farther and allowed the waves to kiss my feet. I’ve done this before. The sand was silent blending into greys on the horizon to my right. I’ve seen this before. I’ve lived this moment sometime before. Was it a past life? A dream? A distant remembrance of childhood? I put my camera and phone on a dry rock and dove in. I let the waves wrap around me. The cold seduced me, my muscles burned and it was then I knew I was alive. It’s like breathing in him. I laughed as I broke through the surface. I’m a mermaid. I allowed myself to rock in and out of the swell, careful not to let myself get pulled out. What would it have really mattered it I had allowed the icy waters to take me away? Under the water’s surface I am safe. Under the water brings undeniable comfort. But it’s nowhere near him. Brave the darkness and the underbelly of life just for a moment with him-stroke his soft skin, become intoxicated on his giggles and pull in his warmth. The satisfaction is undeniable. 

The breaks of sun don't last long as the grey clouds, pregnant with rain, drift further and further over me. It's going to rain. There's something safe about the rain. The world cloaked in semi-darkness. And I'm allowed to be lost in my thoughts. I become invisible, lost in the muted colours of the day. I am faceless. I am limitless. And once these feelings begin to bloom in me, I am free. Away from the crashing waves, the smell of the sea still lingers in my air. Memories in black and white wrap themselves around me and whisper; the ghosts of a thousand lives past leak into my bloodstream. They tell me of radiant loves, heart-stopping experiences and tales of worlds that I will never see. It's intoxicating. It's one of my most perverse addictions. I seek out love and attention, yet want nothing more than to be alone. To let these moments of solitude build me up into something that's beyond myself. To let these moments stroke the fires of my soul and allow the pools of disillusionment and imagination to overflow with possibilities. And then I breathe. 

I'm sitting in a dingy all American diner. I'm 2 hours or so North, but the sea isn't far. This entire state is rimmed on one side by coastline. Rain splashes against the large, grimy windows. Someone yells from the back to the man in the front. He's got tanned, worn skin. He wears a brightly coloured baseball hat supporting some team I've never heard of. The skies grow darker. The wind grows colder. I grow colder. Beef patties hit the griddle and their kissing sneaks over the dirty parkade floor and sit next to me in the booth. I look back over at the man at the till. His t-shirt is stained, blood stains a corner of his apron. Blood stains my clothing too, but the reasons are different. 

On the bus ride here, wherever here is, I snaked through a forest. It was beautiful and haunting at the same time. I pressed my tepid forehead against the frigid glass of the coach and just watched. And I thought of him. Chase me through the forest on a day just like this. Enflame me with your touch and excite me between the trees. Delve into the silences of the Earth that we are rarely privileged to. Chase me between the bushes and the shrubs, like two animals at play. Feel my heart race, from the your touch, not the chase. 

I start counting the raindrops but quickly lose count. They begin to pool around my trainers, much like the days of unparalleled sadness that pool around me in the least expected of times. Then I'm back in the grimy diner. I look over at the cook. He points to a sign near the doors. Booths are for customers only. I should eat something. It's been days. I can't speak. Somethings stolen my voice. Or someone cut out my voice box when I was asleep and in its place left a broken vinyl player. I point to what I want on the board and hand him a banknote. He slides my change across the counter and offers me a small smile. He smells like aftershave, although it looks like he hasn't shaved in some time and grease. He's got a scar on his hand. He tells me that he'll bring my order over when it's done. I take a water, give him a small, tight, smile and crawl back to my booth. 

He passes me a plate laden with chips and nearly drown in ketchup. I smile in thanks and pick at the chips. The silence is almost unsettling. They've got vinegar sprinkled on them too. I eat one. It's salty and hot against my tongue. I let the taste coat my mouth before swallowing. Even though I know they're hot, too hot to eat, I keep putting them in my mouth. One by one. And it burns every time. Half way through the plate, my tongue loses sensation, but I keep on going. I drink down half the bottle of water, my taste buds screaming to be put out of their misery. That was amazing. I trace over the reference of salt with my finger, creating some kind of art. It's misshapen and ugly. The kind you'd seen in a posh museum. 

A woman leans over me. "Do you need something? You're just sitting there? Do you need to charge your phone?" She looks at my tattoos. "Do you not speak, English? Are you alone?" I come back into the world around me. "No. No, I do speak English." My voice is thick with emotion saturated mucus. "Oh! You've got a lovely accent. You're from England. I assumed with the, what is that, German?" She pauses. "With the tattoos that you didn't speak English." "It happens more often than you think. I'm okay, just enjoying some time off." I smile at her. It feels plastic and out of place on my face. "I just wanted to check." "It's kind and responsible of you to do so." She rubs my hand before she leaves. I didn't even see her there before. How long has she been watching me? But she doesn't know. I do need help. What kind of help, I''m not even sure of. There are pieces of me spread across the world. England. Germany. America. And those are just the recent ones. 

 I make a mess everywhere I go; strewn across the photos of my lover and sketches of my madness lost between the sheets. My infatuation with him reflected and pressed into pages and outlines in paperbacks. Stained in ink and charcoal on the hotel room walls. Stained into the carpet and the marble of the bath in blood. Memories, passions and lust all to be washed away when I depart. Will it ever fade? Will everyone ever be able to wash it all away? It's in the crevices of buses, train stations and public toilets. I've etched it in with a razor blade, in marker pen, even in lipstick. In every medium I could touch. His name screams through my fingertips and onto the surface. 

To travel along with me, read snippets and embrace all that is, follow me on Twitter and Instagram. 

LINKS
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