In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “First Sight.”
I can’t remember the first time that I ever read a full sentence. Since two years of age I have been able to read. My mind doesn’t throw up many memories prior to age five so I guess words, literature, have just always been there in my living memory. Reading opened up a whole new world for me as a child; helping me to escape from the real world I inhabited, but didn’t much enjoy due to various reasons. Never really able to express thoughts, feelings or ideas vocally, writing enabled me to make sense of the world as I saw it, and see it still.
I fell in love with people whom had lived, and died, hundreds of years before I was even a twinkle in my Mothers eye. Writers such as Dickens, Keats and Hardy awakened the love for storytelling within me. I had never known such passion for something. Writing, stories, poems kick started my souls journey through life. They are there for me when no-one else is, or when I am not able to let anyone into my world.
My saving grace then, now and forever.
Last Friday night turned into a Saturday morning with old friends, one of those great unexpected nights that you can’t plan but always are bound to enjoy. I am now still paying for this physically on Sunday afternoon (as I write this), but that’s another story.
As is oft the case when people are sleep deprived, and in varying levels of intoxication, conversations and their subjects turned to the deep and meaningful/controversial. Allow me to first give some context; my friends at the gathering aged in range from mid twenties to mid thirties, so it was a largely Generation Y based participatory discussion.
The conversation turned to the state of current adolescents (children we deemed from 11 upwards), and the way that we believed sexual discovery for them has been ruined, in part by the Internet. The general consensus was that none of us would want to grow up and…
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We live near the Thames
The life blood of London
Of a Sunday, we eat, drink and are merry in
Old pubs, where the dockers of past downed post labour pints
Something within the air here makes me feel safe
Strolling through an autumnal Southwark park, just the other day
(My 29th birthday in fact)
We took in the green, red and golden hues of a winter, fast approaching
Smiled, breathed in crisp, cold air
And knew, once again, that we were home.
You come between my boyfriend and I
He says that I spend too much time, staring
Staring listlessly into your gentle light
You’re my vision into other worlds
My silent, stalking partner in crime, whenever I snoop on a frenemy
Or nine, now and again
Hours swoop by, as I gaze at you, open mouthed.