I’ve wanted to write. I’ve wanted words to drip out of my ink pen and onto the unblemished white page. But it has all gotten in the way. The books, the work, the incessant cuckooing of the clock. There are days I’m afraid I might go mad with all of it. Until I am cuckooing myself, faithfully on the hour.
I’m clinging onto the shards of sanity by refusing to neglect the inner workings of my own private little world. Going on adventures with Daisy and Piper, and mourning for My Tess. Angel’s in his heaven. Eating white chocolate ice cream out of my Chesire Cat mug. It was as white as snow, you know. It had me wishing for December.
Do you know what would be ever-so-lovely? Going to the cinema in a town where not one soul knows my name. I’d smuggle in candy hearts, gooey popcorn balls, and a giant thermos of tea. When you go to the cinema by yourself, you don’t have to be afraid to cry. You can rest your head in your hands and sob the whole way through (which I always do, especially when we went and saw Finding Neverland. I didn’t even stop when we went back to the car, cried the whole way home).