To the Man of My Many Firsts…


Dearest Joseph,

You wouldn’t believe it if I told you that for the past 2-3 months I have thought about you, a lot… To this day, every time a Peugeot drives past I peek in to see if its you. I’ve thought about reaching out to see if you would go for a coffee with me. I tried a while ago… but freaked out and ended the call before you picked up. You knew it was me… You called right back but I made you leave a voicemail. I’m sorry. How I wish I had tried again and that you hadn’t blocked me on all social media! The amount of times I’ve looked for you and only found your abandoned twitter and that silly ole post from a few years ago, which I must admit does make me smile.

I’ve spent the past week trapped in my younger self. Reminiscing of all things you. It was such a long time ago that I was with you but it feels so recent and so influential. I’ve been thinking of all the things I experienced as new with you… You were my first boyfriend, my first valentine, my first bouquet of flowers, my first late night booty call,  my first ‘couples’ holiday, my first to meet the father, my first anniversary, my first breakup (although there were a few), my first spliff, my first creative piece of writing, my first male confidante, my first eyebrow stroke and morning cuddle, my first ‘I love you’ … The list extends so far! I had hoped to one day joke about all the things we did when we were younger and about how intense we were, and I still cant believe that I won’t…

Despite the ‘ice queen’ exterior, I was forever the sentimental… and you knew that, you saw me for what I was. I have every letter and mix tape you sent me… I even have all the train tickets from when I visited you at uni! I am so glad that I safeguarded these and have your words and voice to remember you by. You were the person that encouraged me to write in order to overcome my communication issues and to try and channel my emotion. You wouldn’t know it, but this has become one of the most important outlets for me and has helped me to overcome bouts of depression and anxiety.  You were the first person to watch me cry, you would sweep back that ridiculous fringe of mine and still tell me I looked beautiful. You dealt with all those awful hair styles, my Paramore and Twilight obsessions, and all my childish ways… Thank you.

There are a few memories that stand out to me and that I will only cherish more now. Do you remember when we went to Marbella? Despite you being adamant you would go browner than me, you did not! You only brought those silly white board shorts (probably to make you look browner) and they went see through every time you went in the water… Much to your embarrassment and my delight. Gosh, and do you remember when we went to Nikki Beach for the champagne spray? We had so much fun. For the entirety of that holiday my mum wouldn’t let you have share my bed and we would sneak about as soon as she fell asleep, surely she must have known? I used to make it my number one objective to make sure people knew you were mine, you’re mum would be routinely furious at me for leaving marks all over your neck. Sorry Karan! I can remember house parties at mine always ending in you… Those grey joggers and that beanie hat staple which at the time were my favourite. You ALWAYS tasted of cherry blistex and I can remember clear as day our first kiss. Pretty sure the first picture below was captured moments after… How cute. Our weekend jaunts when my mum was out of town, graced with continual viewings of 8 mile, buttery crumpets and you hiding your bedhead… You always left too early and came round too late!

Those 04:27AM texts still to this day make me feel so special, waking up to those used to blind me with happiness. Why were you always up so bloody late? You and that blimmin gaming addiction… I can recall those texts letter for letter, word for word, and with every use of punctuation. You made every part of me feel safe and perfect, from my cold hands to my very long belly and painted toes. Even when we were no longer together, you always exercised kindness with me. Not only did you get me through our break ups but you also came and tended to me when other guys weren’t so kind. You never cut me off from that giant smile of yours, you never shouted and never called me names. You were the best introduction into adult life that a girl could have asked for.

I wish I had stayed in contact. I wish that I had told you you were more than enough and that I cherished you deeply. If you didn’t know what you meant to me, I am so sorry, for there I have failed and I am so disappointed in myself for that.  I would have done anything to help you through whatever it was you were tormented by… I would have done anything in my power to make you feel your worth, even if it meant annoying you every day of the week. I wish you weren’t gone, I wish I could turn back time and give you one last hug. I keep playing back all the instances when I wanted to message you, would it have made a difference? I don’t for one second think that I could be more than those all around you… But I know I could have given you a moment of relief. I hope in someway or another you know I am thinking of you and that I loved you. I promise to always cherish everything I have of yours and every memory graced by your smile.

All my love,

Jessica

P.S – Trey Songz has been on repeat.

 

 

 

 

Comfort Blanket.


To take away a child’s comfort blanket before they are ready in my eyes, is a great mis-justice. Plus, the suffering incurred for it surely is not worth the hassle? Instead we leave it to them… soon enough they’ll grow up, find creature comforts and form new habits of a soothing nature whether it be with yet another inanimate object or person.

Yes, it may take longer than one would like and yes, others may dispute it, but nature should run its course, all things take time. The blanket may become stained, tainted even, but until it can no longer perform its function, being that of comfort, why chuck it out? Instead we can wash it and try and forget the marks that once adorned it and hope that those around us can ignore the faint stains that insist on lingering…

4229 Miles


By definition, a home is where one lives permanently. Something recognised globally. Most would identify with the notion that “the strongest sense of home commonly coincides geographically with a dwelling. Usually the sense of home attenuates as one moves away from that point, but it does not do so in a fixed or regular way.“(Terkenli, T. S. 1995).

I agree with the latter, but cannot say the same for the conceptualisation on geography. I am a firm believer in the saying ‘the home is where the heart is’. The majority could and would interlink the two. Yet for me, home is not where I reside and execute the mundane chores of life… Instead it is approximately 4229 miles away. For being at home is very different from feeling at home.

Of course there is myriad of human factors, as well as familiarity that argue after 23 years, London is my home, the geographical area in which I have ties. Yet when I reflect on simply my innermost self or personal élan, where I feel at ease (free from pain, worry, or agitation) and most honest to my true being… Home would be called Kenya. Here I feel no constraints. I am whole and undivided. The confines of what makes me me and my surroundings blur and I here I can challenge the facets of my psyche. Who we are is tantamount to where we are.

It is impossible to acquire immunity from ones social and physical environment and the hurdles that they throw at you. But seeking out the place where one can rationalise, and live by what is important in the rawest sense is integral to happiness.

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Asteroid.


I can’t quite describe what happened. It was almost as though something flew out of the sky… Directed straight towards me with no uncertainty. Its purpose was to obstruct my path, and strike me full force in the face. An impact so large on an emotional scale that I would, in all my dramatic glory, liken its effects to the Cambrian Explosion. But to see someone riddled with even a hint of what I felt crippled me. I couldn’t help but take a sordid trip down memory lane. I’ve been so caught up in everything ‘hearts and flowers’ (pardon the Fifty Shades quote) that I’ve managed to distract myself from the occupational hazard of happiness… For it to be ripped away with no warning.

Street Lights


If highways and roads are the earth’s veins, the hundreds of miles of train tracks are hidden energy flows – sources of emotion. Whether it be happy or sad, it is unimportant. For their abundance means, regardless of their nature, the effect is overwhelming. It consumes the land, yet is unspoken. Some of these tracks are untouched by others, engulfed by silence and a sense of indisputable serenity and sacredness, yet with an overhang of loneliness and misinterpretation. Those we display are polished, made as appealing to the human eye as feasibly possible . Yet those rugged, rusted stretches are what we hold close, leaving their destinations unknown to all but ones self. Forming an almost sick manifestation with a true masochistic relationship.

Most don’t want to revisit what lurks, some could liken this trip down memory lane to a bone chilling ghost train. Haunted by our own ghouls. Showcasing all our imperfections. Unwanted uniqueness. All of which drop us into the category of being human. Too much time and a fleeting dabble with an inquisitive nature will lead to a life on the tracks. Occasionally bursting through the foliage, returning to a known location, characterised by the all to familiar sounds and smells of civilisations. Areas in which all our resources are exploited. With street lights leading to every crevice being excavated and shared with all those that past.

However for some, this encounter with ‘normality’ is brief, they hop aboard the next carriage to lead them to their primeval burnt orange slats. Their familiarity, even though it be morbid, provides a comfort.

It is rare that you see a couple hand in hand unearthing the could be treasures or curses of this complex matrix. Is it wrong to want someone to stand by me, help me place one foot in front of the other and complete my diesel stained voyage of self acceptance and discovery.

Moon Child


I’ve always preferred the wonder that is the moon. I know some people would dispute this and say how can one not prefer the days when the sun is high, exposed in full glory, warming one to their core? However, I find the moon soothing. It can be trusted. It has craters a plenty, a dusty surface unpolished. Yet the clarity, displayed when the sky is crystalline with no blemishes present, is unequivocal. Unprecedented even.  

The sun is for those who seek more than they can find, hungry. Despite, bursting with its entirety. The sun is estimated to be 416 times bigger than the moon. It is for those who can never be pleased or do not trust with what they are, their personal definition – in a permanent elixir of gluttony and unsatisfied lust that cannot be tamed. 

The mythology of the moon is based on instinct, ones reckoning with oneself. It is for those who know their definition, yet can sit with it at ease. No tampering needed. It is for those who trust their subconscious, the unspoken. I once looked at the sun, it felt unrequited. My burn for it was too great, hedonistic. When that sun was ripped away, and instead the sombre fuzziness of the clouds took place, not only was warmth and happiness ripped away but ones ability to trust ones judgement. Why would one put oneself in a position of imminent loss? 

Daddy Issues


Victorian patriarchy is a thing of the long forgotten past, it’s all about the feud brought about by postmodernism. The age of the millennium. I’m not talking about divorce or kids born out of wedlock or even the children who have never known their fathers, not that I’m belittling such circumstances, but instead I’m addressing those that choose to not be present. 

Don’t worry I’m not gonna go all Freud and Jung on anybody, but it’s becoming more and more apparent that my fathers negligence bothers me a hell of a lot more than I ever realised.

Ride. 


It can all be fun and games, filled with laughter and joy. It can be home to things of exceptional beauty not before seen. It can be the beginning of a lifelong adventure or a fleeting moment of shared hedonism. The path can be treacherous with objects, obstructions, blurring the end point. But open arms cannot be folded. One must choose the one they share this journey with carefully, for one does not run with strangers through the night. Once intricate ties have been made, creating a magnetism, one can only hope that the path leads to unity, rather than a wedge of infinite existence. As the saying goes – one cannot ignore an elephant in the room.

However, if and when the last leaf drops and it is over, one does not want to remember it for its stark, unforgiving, hard truths. One wants to look back after darkness to find it riddled with blossom, light on everything. One cannot subject themselves to the trap of just seeing the bad, we have such a tendency to label things in the way they ended. Why can one not overlook the ending whether its been or yet to come, and instead ‘enjoy the ride’? For we do not label the end of ones existence with negativity just for they are no longer with us – we celebrate what was and take with us all the good. Have faith in the one you choose, ultimately trust yourself, take their hand indefinitely, and find delight in the bumps on the road.

The beauty that lies within something dead…


A fleshy velvety rose, is said to hold the beauty of all the lovers that have received such an iconic symbol. Its deep colour and soft touch I’m sure to most is exquisite, refined with delicacy and exuding infinite sentiment and devotion. This isn’t a new manifestation but historic, the ancient Greeks and Romans identified the rose with their goddesses of love, Aphrodite and Venus. Those titled as beautiful. But how can that be? Something so delicate cannot carry the burden of such emotion, for it will wilt. The demise of a rose is a certainty that cannot be unbound. It will allure you at first, but wait for it to transform, to morph into something different. Its silken petals will grow feeble. Its colour will drain. It will no longer be desired. It has been stripped of its mask. So tell me this, why is such a symbol labelled a confidante? Sub Rosa or “under the rose” for most, means to keep a secret, to swear allegiance. Yet I dont see it.

However, look upon that which is dried, there is no deceit to be found there, every crease is laced with sincerity, what you see is what you get. Its faded colour and brittle touch is displayed without reluctance. It does not bear false witness. Its beauty is undeniable. For it will not change, it will not work the magic of illusionists. Therefore, I find the beauty of a perished rose much greater than that yet to show its final form.

Meteors.


“I have a theory. My theory is about moments, moments of impact. My theory is that these moments of impact, these flashes of high intensity that completely turn our lives upside down actually end up defining who we are. The thing is, each one of us is the sum total of every moment that we’ve ever experienced, with all the people we’ve ever known, and it’s these moments that become our history. Like our own personal greatest hits of memories that play and replay in our minds over and over again. A moment of impact. A moment of impact whose potential for change has ripple effects far beyond what we can predict. Sending some particles crashing together, making them closer than before. While sending others, spinning off into great ventures, landing where you never thought you’d find them. You see, that’s the thing about moments like these, you can’t, no matter how hard you try, control how they’re going to affect you. You’ve just got to let the colliding particles land where they may, and wait, until the next collision.”

There are many moments in my life that will never be forgotten. Some good, some bad. I, like all, have many regrets. My responses, reflexes, to some of these ‘collisions’ were not apt. Some I did not realise the severity of, I was wronged in ways no one should and I’m only now perceiving them as I should have then. Weird, that only now I am floored as one should be when such a colossal moment of significant destruction hits them. Due to such a delay its almost as if I have made these moments of suffering acceptable, I can’t now make a fuss, that’d be wrong right? No one wants to delve into the past, what is dead and buried should stay that way? It is for this reason that I need to find a way to get them off my chest without causing social implications. I’m just not sure that is even possible. How does one heal after what… I guess in terms of ‘impact’, would be likened to a meteor storm?

Anyhow, we ‘are the sum total of every moment that we’ve ever experienced’ and everything experienced can be a lesson learned and every lesson learned has a beneficial value, small or large. Maybe the key to hurtling forward through life is to focus on the positive that can be squeezed out..Converting to the idealist optimist that I detest may be best?

However, one must not forget in all this that there are moments of perfection. It is in these that I am guilty. I cherish them now, but I wish in the moment I saw their irrefutable beauty… Despite this, I now know them to be the moments that will drag me through the worst. They are irreplaceable, priceless and unprecedented, as are the people that created them.