Smells are what always hit me first. The cup-a-noodle seasoning of salt and starch and chemicals wraps around from the seat behind me. The odd, quite gross smell of humans trapped in the same circulating air reaches me and I turn my headphones up louder. One sense tries to rise above and overcome another. The habit of writing on planes has not left me. This year I have constructed and destructed prose in my head constantly but nothing has held well enough to make it to the indulgence of time spent writing. Dead time. Air time. Constructive time. Life time.
This is a year channelling the fluidity of water. Last year was a year of letting myself wash with the tides, being cleansed, healing hurts as they floated to the surface. This year I become the healer, I create the course for my own river to run, ebb and flow at my own pace.
Water. It always comes back to water.
Feat. Dee Shepherd