Are you reading this?

I'm not sure if you ever read this, so I guess I could write anything I want and say all the things I need to say, and it won't matter because you won't admit you hear me, and I won't even try and get you to look at me anymore.

I guess it doesn't matter anyway, we're both too damaged. But you think you're too damaged for anyone, but you can't see that we're all in the same boat. People don't have to be perfect to be everything you need.

I mean I don't care that you don't think you're perfect, because you're everything I need right now.

I'm proud of you for starting again, this time don't take it so seriously. We're all just kids pretending we know what we're doing.

You don't have to be cool, I don't care if you're in a band or not, what bars you go to, who your friends are, what car you drive. I don't care that you're suffering, or that you can't shake your habits, or that you just don't know how to be normal anymore.

Because we'll work it out.

But we can't if you don't even look in my direction.

Defective

This very moment will never exist again, so even as I make love to it, I'm kissing it goodbye.

I hate myself for being a little bit happy that moments like tonight, when I should be relishing the fact that I am safe and warm and loved by someone with good intentions, won't last forever, and I won't feel so guilty all the time for not deserving it, and for not giving it back.

Sunshine

Last night I had a dream that I was a snail.

That was it, really.

I just sat on the dirt, in the warm sunshine, stretching my snail neck and thinking snail thoughts.

This morning when I was walking to the train, I stepped on a snail.

*Twilight Zone theme song*

For you.

Once upon a time, there was a girl. She was of little consequence to the universe, but major consequence to this particularly story. She loved a boy (there's always someone to love), and this boy loved her too.
This boy was also in a band, which he loved. A lot of people loved his band too. The girl didn't mind, she got it.
This was until the boy realised that the people who loved his band also loved him, so much so that they would do whatever he wanted.
He informed the girl that she was of little consequence to him, and there were a million more of her in the crowd every night.
He was a bit silly.
So she closed her door, and let him go have the million other girls. She loved him a lot, but she didn't like him anymore.

And so it goes.

Then the boy came back for the girl, but she wasn't there. She was off being of little consequence somewhere else. So they both lost.

Something tells me that this kind of story doesn't end happily.

Naturally, there's no other option but to write it better next time. (Or maybe get a better lead actor.)

Happy Days

Stupid piercing. Again.

Another tattoo- the ninth, but the first one that means anything to me.

The delicious melancholy of a break up.

The delicious melancholy of not being in love.
I'm sorry.

Work being rad.

Fractured jaw. Again. Soup month again?

Not really knowing where to go home.

New sheets.

Old sweater.

Yoga.

Singing 'So Long, Farewell' every evening as Emma leaves for work.

The man from Tiger Tiger telling me that I've lost too much weight, and giving me free breakfast every morning.

Feeling bad because I only drink the green tea.

Asthma attacks.

Not answering my phone.

Being genuinely happy for my friends- stay beautiful, because someone has to remind me that it still exists.

Koby, I miss you. I hate you for doing this. How can you take your life when some people don't even have a choice?
We're not the same.
But the thought that we are keeps me awake every night.

I need new blogs to read. Someone who feels just like me, please, but a little less numb. Say the words that I can't find- say them however you want, I don't even care if you spell like a dyslexic, just remind me that I'm not the only one awake at stupid hours.

Somebody

People tend to give me a lot of advice, maybe because I seem to often find myself in difficult situations. Recently I was in an awkward, complicated situation, and the two main bits of advice I remember were also the two most conflicting- "Choose the one who loves you most" and "You've got to love the one that your with."

Under my circumstances, they weren't the same thing. I chose the one that loved me most, because he'd be the one to treat me right. Don't get me wrong, he's a lovely guy and he treats me amazingly, and the thing is, if I can't love him, maybe there's something wrong with me?

I've never been the one to profess my love or to feel completely lost without someone. Even my friends know that I'm not the type to emotionally connect.

After disconnecting so long ago, I'm desperate to connect, but I just don't know how to do that anymore.

Fog

Do you still love me and will you lend me money for a unicorn?

Inkshiz.

So. Dedication to the blog? No, no, silly oyster. An homage to a long life loving The Princess Bride. And it's not even some sneaky little quote buried away. Morgenstern labelled it "The Princess Bride: The Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure." Now seriously, who wouldn't want to live life that way?

So that's where it is. On my back. My backy wack. I think it hurt. I don't remember. I was pretty well delirious by that point....

Friggen Owwwwwwch.

But don't my pins look lovely?

This was the beginning of Pacman. Massive kudos to Ryan from Holdfast in Beaufort Street. The kids a trooper. It was like three or five or something odd hours of non-stop tattooing, and me telling him I hated him.

"Do you want to take a break, Trish?"

"NO, JUST FRIGGEN DO IT."

Story of my life.

He's also the guitarist of the positively brilliant Perth band Elora Danan. Check it here.

Word.

Intentions

It's so hard settling for what you already have when you realise all the things you could have.

When you realise your friends aren't your friends, they're just the leftovers of your past. It sounds horrid to put like that, but it's true. People change, regardless of what they want. And we all change at different rates, so sometimes we leave people behind. Timing is funny, sometimes we click again, sometimes we don't, and that's all there is.

When you look in your closet and you find mountains of clothes, none of which really work for you anymore. Clothing is important, it's superficial, but it's how we present ourselves to the world. People form an opinion of us just by looking at us, and if we just stand there in our awkward, nondescript clothing, uncomfortable and unsure, we aren't happy, and we aren't going to be clicking.

When the person you thought you could maybe one day love doesn't turn out to be the person you thought, or maybe just hoped. We try. It's human nature, we crave love, and we try to hold on, but sometimes it's just not an option anymore. You give and you give and sometime's there's nothing left to give, and there's no more second chances.

There's a saying that my brother has said a million times, one that I just put down to his delinquent tendencies and his rage blackouts. 'Kill Your Family, Kill Your Friends, Kill Yourself." When I actually asked him what it was, he explained that it wasn't some angry emo catchcry, it was actually derived from some religious or cultural belief, I can't remember now.

Basically, it was about starting fresh. You take away your family, the beliefs and values they instilled, the good and the bad memories, any regrets, resentment, failures, anything that affected you. Then, you take away your friends, what you try and be for them, what compromises you make, what you go along with. Then, when all you have left is you, you start stripping it off.

The lies we tell ourselves to make things seem better, the way we justify our motives, our jealous feelings, our insecure thoughts, the things that keep us awake at night, angry dizzy thoughts that we count, pretending they're sheep. We strip ourselves bare, peel back the layers of clothing, of skin, of muscle and bone, until we're no longer a physical presence. What are you behind it all?

Then, when you're clean and fresh and vulnerable, you start again. You become someone you like, someone you understand, someone you can rely on. Then you go to your family, you learn to love them again, you learn to respect them again, you allow yourself to let in their morals and values and beliefs through a filter, and if you've been on the right track, they don't change so much.

You reasses your friends, you build a solid support team, people who become your world. They complement you. They make you happy beyond comprehension. You're different but you're united through common threads- ideas, thoughts, actions, it draws us in.

And maybe, if we do it right, we aren't 'settling' for anything anymore. We win. There's no compromise, because nobody should ever lower their standards- you compromise your life, you compromise your happiness. No compromising, no settling. And then we're on the road again.

Hide and Seek

People are drawn to each other through similarities. Troubles draw troubles, what you think of most eventually manifests, and though it can be easy to say that it's bad to have someone as troubled as you, sometimes it's the best thing for you.

Things don't need to be perfect to be exactly what you need.

I'm lost. It's like when you play Hide and Seek, and you find a brilliant hiding spot, and at first you're triumphant, you know no-one's going to find you. But as time ambles by, you start wondering if maybe they forgot about you, maybe they finished the game without you, maybe you hid too well.

You start feeling a little claustrophobic, scared, angry, you know you've been hiding too long but the thought of going back into the game and forfeiting worries you. So you sit, and you stay lost, and if you were anything like the child I was, you stayed lost all afternoon, until the neighbourhood went quiet and you realise maybe that you won, but you're still lost.

So you stumble out of your hiding spot, confused and nervous, the light too bright to your darkened, bleary eyes, cobwebs in your hair and dirt on your hands, and you can't quite shake the feeling of being lost. Even after you find your way to your house, and wash all the dust off you, and crawl into your bed, you feel lost and tired and cold.

Because being lost is a little intoxicating, it's quite lovely to hide away from all the horrid things that happen and uncomfortable silences and unpleasant situations, and pretend time is frozen and nothing matters.

I don't want to be found by someone who isn't lost too. So when walking around in a cold city, numb and cold and bleary eyed, I don't want to be found by The Seeker. Another lost person is quite enough, we'll hold hands and anchor each other to the ground so we don't float away, and then sometime we won't be lost anymore, because we crawled out of our own little hiding place on our own, nobody had to find us and drag us out and cut short our hibernation.

Being lost never was a bad thing.

Biko

Today I was aimless, travelling on unfamiliar trains with unfamiliar faces. Where I would end up was erroneous, I didn't know, I didn't know how to know, and for once it was nice to not be running away. I was just adventuring.

I like who I am when I don't know who to be.

At some point, My Gentleman Caller found me on my adventures and joined me. He sat next to me, his knee pressed into my thigh, our arms and hands tangled together, and in him, as always, I found solace.

Belonging is a tricky thing- it's not just how you fit, its where you long to be. I don't know where I want to be. Perth is home, Bunbury is home, the edge of my balcony is home, My Gentleman Caller's arms are home, the pylon at Cottesloe is home, nowhere is home, I am comfortable and out of my element in so many places. Where I fit one day is foreign the next. The world is new, and while I am unconditionally in love with the bliss and the harsh ugliness, I am also unfamiliar and scared, easily shaken, unsure of how solid the ground may be before me.

The world isn't kind to little things, but it is forgiving. Love is where you find it, and I choose to look for it in reflections, so that one thing can stay constant.

Hopscotch

I don't like how temporary things are. Bread only lasts a couple of days, and in my efforts to prolong its existence, I end up accidentally eating mould and gagging it all into the kitchen sink. Trying to hold onto things never ends well.

Marriage isn't even a permanent thing anymore, somehow it's become normal for people to divorce, to leave each other, to just decide that they're moving on by themselves.

Sometimes things don't even reach the top level before they fade away, it seems. Things that you try and hold onto and build on and love just fall between your fingers before it gets to a satisfying level. It's like you didn't even get the chance to learn anything, to get the real experience of it all.

I feel like there's a hole in my stomach, I'm missing something that I never even had. I knew that I could have it, it was there, but I don't know if I didn't hold on tight enough, or if I held on too tight after all, but I seem to have lost it and I don't know how to get it back.

Don't Get Any Big Ideas

Today I was a bit down. It was a carry over from last night's sombre mood, but it left me grim about the mouth and with no spring in my step. I had no desire to get out of bed, resulting in me being about an hour late for work when I actually got up. I made myself even later by stopping in to see My Gentleman Caller, and he lightened my miserable mood a little by being his lovely self, holding my hand and saying typical guy statements, and although he did walk me to work, he made us walk the long way, thus making me later.
After about twenty minutes I'd left work again, and I was sleepwalking around for the most part, thinking too much and not feeling much at all.

You know when you have something on your face, and you're self concious enough about it, but then someone else says something about it and it just shatters your frail confidence? Like, for example, you have a pimple or a bruise or a scar, and you think you've pretty well hidden it, or maybe it's not as noticeable as you think, but then your friend says, "Geez, dude, you better be hooking into that Clearasil, stat." And you're sooo bummed out.
Well, the other day I had a pretty gnarly asthma attack, and I have this habit of biting my bottom lip during an attack. Basically, I bit through my lip, and it bled and bled, and now there's this slightly rank looking sore on it. Yeah. Gross, right? But I was like, ohhh, it's not so bad, I mean it's not like I have herpes.

So in my sombre mood, I was sitting on a bench talking to my Gentlemen Caller, when he states quite bluntly "I'd kiss you, but I don't want to catch whatever you've got." Being slightly mortified, my only response was to punch him in the stomach effectively winding him, and sit grumpily on the bench while he grovelled. "I bit through my lip, jerkface." I say defensively.

Even though my crankiness was still very much in place, and I was feeling hideously ugly and unwanted, that conversation changed my mood a fair bit. Like I was looking at the world through crap-covered glasses, while some people have real problems. I had someone who wanted to fix my mood, and while I had to 'settle' for hugs, the intentions were there.

I guess in the end its easy to let yourself wallow, because sadness is surrender. What's hard though is letting people catch you in their own way- people aren't going to sugarcoat things or coddle you or fulfill your big ideas of how you should be treated, but if you're lucky, and you keep your mind open, you can find someone who'll catch you and make you stronger than before.

Eyes and Ears

I don't look like a particularly classy, together kind of person. I'm eternally late for work, even though I started catching the early train and have twenty minutes to do a seven minute walk. I rarely brush my hair and I probably should, considering how long and wild it goes, but it never seems to be overly important to me. I skip down the street to work, I high five the construction workers, I stop every morning and chat to my favourite homeless guy, who I affectionately refer to as Dumbledore.

Dumbledore and I have a lovely relationship. Most days I bring him an apple or a juice box or just some coins, and in exchange, he'll give me a trinket he found or tell me some hilarious story about things he sees around the city. He always gives me some lovely compliment about my hair or how green my eyes are in the morning light or how I smell like sunshine. For about three days last week I didn't see him, and I was worried sick that he'd died, but when he returned to his stoop, he informed me that he'd been adventuring.

Initially, I was kind to him because I was worried about being attacked in the city, and I figured that if I was nice to Dumbledore, he'd turn into a superhero and save my life one day. Then, I had a thought that maybe he was magic (hence the Dumbledore) and if I gave him things, he'd give me a unicorn. Now, I just like him because he makes me happy in the mornings, and refers to My Gentlemen Caller as 'that long haired lout with Popeye arms.'

Anyway, this afternoon as I was leaving work after a brutal asthma attack, Dumbledore was sitting at his usual spot, chatting to the construction workers. "Hey Dumbledore." I say hoarsely as I walk past, clutching my Ventolin tightly. "Good morning, Kitten." He replies, holding out his hand with a plastic helicopter toy on it. I like that he says good morning or good evening whenever he likes, he says sometimes it feels like morning in the afternoon, and he trusts his instincts more than some clock. I take the helicopter and give him a Subway cookie that I got with my lunch, and he stares at me carefully before saying "Breathe easy, little kitten." I show him my Ventolin and inform him that I would be when it kicks in, and he kind of shrugs it off and looks at me knowingly. Instead of shrugging back at him, and leaving to my train as per usual, I stop and sit next to him for a change. Things look different from Dumbledore's stoop.

Maybe it's because we're lower than everyone else, maybe it was because we had nowhere to be in the immediate future, but on the stoop, I could breathe easier. I didn't care that people were staring at the homeless guy and the tangle-haired girl on the stoop, I just liked that someone who paid no heed to impressing others, or making others prove themselves, would let me into his little world of peace.

A lot of people look at Dumbledore like a parasite, like the scum of society, like just another schitzophrenic soul wandering the streets barefoot. He may be, I can't say that something is right or wrong. But to me, he's a friend with a different view of the world, that maybe I can learn from.

The Click

People have all kinds of words to describe how they feel when they meet someone and it just feels right. There was a spark, a feeling, a lightening bolt. For me, it was a click. I looked at him, he looked at me, and we both kind of felt the need to talk to each other.

It was the kind of flow that you have with someone you've known for years. You don't talk over each other because you know the rhythm of the way they talk, the conversation hardly has any gaps because you both follow exactly what each other is saying, and the gaps you do have are completely comfortable.

Even just standing close to him, although what we were doing wasn't particularly affectionate or intimate (it involved rubber gloves, pliers, and his fingers pinching my lip), it was like we fit. Everything was right, and I don't know how to explain it. It was like everything just lined up and fell into place, things that seemed irrelevant in the scheme of things suddenly made sense. Things like why I was short, why I ended up having the piercings and tattoos that I had, why I was wearing the shoes I was, why my lip stud randomly fell out, why I walked into that particular place at that particular time. Every concious and subconcious decision I had made that day had led me into something that I've wanted for so long.

And you know the saying, good things take time? They do, but great things happen all at once. It just works from the start, things happen and fall into place and it hardly feels like you have to work for them, because if it was meant to happen at the present time, it would happen regardless of what you did or didn't do.

In a matter of two days, things have changed already. Things are happening. And while previous mistakes are holding me back from saying too much, simply because of the fear of jinxing things, I have a feeling that things are happening the way I want.

It's weird though, because although it brings out the best in me and I'm happier and lovelier to people, it also brings out the worst. I'm so scattered, I ended up getting a chicken and bacon baguette for lunch after we met the first day, when in truth, I don't eat anything but the lettuce. Kerby was well stoked that he got a free lunch though. I became more clumsy than usual- I couldn't even walk in a straight line. I was hyperactive, I was impatient and distracted, I was moving at a hundred miles an hour and my mind was locked on one thing. It was like my dyspraxia was intense and invisible at the same time.

But you know, all things considered, I wouldn't give it up. Every inconvenient and sucky thing that I manage to do because of this is so incredibly worth it for The Click.

I'll wait.

Forget

It doesn't matter.

Twenty Two Minutes

It takes me five and a half minutes to walk to the train station every morning, six if the traffic lights aren't on my side. It takes twenty-two minutes on the train to get to work. It takes another six minutes to walk from the train station to work.

Add on another half minute if I'm wearing shoes, take a half minute if I'm barefoot.

If I manage to get a seat, it's twenty-two minutes of staring awkwardly at the signs above people's heads, out the window, or at my i-pod, pretending I'm reading a lot more than just the title of the song. Generally I stand near the door, and spend twenty-two minutes trying desperately to regain my balance and not fall over, gripping the jacket of the man in front of me.

These twenty-two minutes pass by with little consequence, unless I fall over, or a strange man licks my shoulder (true story), or a homeless man steals my half eaten apple (also, true story).

Twenty-two minutes isn't particularly long, I know, and I should be glad that by spending twenty-two minutes on the train I am helping the environment, saving money, and most important, missing peak hour in traffic. However the twenty-two minutes does drag on when I am literally surrounded by couples.

Directly across from me this morning, a man and a woman in freakishly matching suits were holding hands in that delicate, soft-touched way, where you know they had epic sex the night before and were still feeling all lovey-dovey. They were going between gazing into each others eyes, and looking smugly at everyone else on the train.

To the right of me, a boyish looking guy was chatting to a kind of scary looking blonde girl. Perhaps she scared me just because of the weird crab claw/death grip thing her hand was doing on his knee, or perhaps it was the angry twitching glares she gave me, but either way, kudos to the boy. You tame that shrew, slugger.

To the left of me, two middle aged lesbians were making out, complete with slurps, smacks, and giggles.

And there I was, on my own. What a lewwwwwser, right?

INCORRECT, MY FRIEND.

Here is the reason why:

Should the train stop at a particular stop, and a particular person comes on (who that person is, I still haven't decided. Will it be the blonde guy from Off Ya Tree? Will it be some undiscovered screamo guitarist? Will it be the footballer from my afternoon train? I still haven't figured out who plays the Westley to my Buttercup in my increasingly elaborate day dream), I will be sitting pretty surrounded my the lustful pheromones of the blissful lovers around me, and the poor blonde guy/guitarist/footballer/insert fella (with or without an umbrella) here will have no choice but to succumb to peer pressure and run away with me. But only for a little while, I have to work at nine, and stomach butterflies do not pay the bills, although they tend to keep my appetite to a minimum, thus buying less food, thus saving money, so maybe they do pay other bills.

Anyway, the fact is, that The Train Luvahhhhs are already stuck. They don't get to have new adventures with lovely strangers on the train. I do. So I win, right? Right.

But gosh, wouldn't it be lovely to have someone distract me for twenty-two minutes in the morning? Especially if they were actually real, and not some elaborate and ultimately unsatisfying figment of my imagination.

Until then though, it's a good way to spend twenty-two minutes.

We're through, Red!

I'm sitting on my couch and it's exactly 11.59a.m., and I'm eating a bag of green m&m's.

Last night I got home from the city around 10p.m., and I was completely wrecked. I fell asleep in the elevator against the wall, and by the time I managed to make it to my front door, struggling with all my bags and keys, I didn't have the strength to turn the key in the lock. Luckily, the two new Norwegian girls came out to help me, and found it hilarious that I was so tired I couldn't even say my own name.

I was lying on my couch, half asleep, thinking idly about all the things I was supposed to do that night (and believe me, there's a lot), and trying to ignore the fact that my phone was beeping incessantly with people wanting me to come out and live it up with them.

Living it up is awesome in theory, but when my legs won't let me stand up, living it up is best done on the couch.

Anyway, being the warm and charitable person that I am, (siiiif) I said that they could come over if they were so inclined. I said it in such a way that invited them, but kind of encouraged them to decline. You know the way, someone's probably done it to you. A courtesy invite, but it's not a genuine invite.

I'm pretty good at them.

Anyway, obviously not getting my point, a boy, let's call him Oscar, ( I kind of wish his name was Oscar, that's so much cooler than his actual name), accepts my fake invite and informs me that he's on his way.

At this point I was pretty well dead, and forcing myself to stay awake for the sake of Oscar, which was actually causing me pain. I don't think I've been in pain from staying awake in forever. I get continuous messages from him on his progress, and I find myself drifting off to sleep every so often but somehow keeping myself from falling to a really heavy sleep. I send him a polite message saying that if he doesn't get here soon, I'm going to go to bed.
About half a minute later I send him another message saying that I'm going to bed.

He replies, "That's alright. I actually haven't even left my house yet."

ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME? SERIOUSLY.

I kept myself awake for a good hour and a half for this wanktard, (he's actually quite lovely but I'm super pissed at him now), actually suffering because I needed to sleep so bad, and he's taking his sweeeeeeeeet time and leading me to believe that he's just seconds away from my door.

I'm not even giving you fake invites anymore, 'Oscar'. We're throoooooooough!

Anyway, I crawled off the couch into my bed, and drifted off to sleep, and not even half an hour later, I heard the sound of my front door opening slowly and someone coming in. Now my apartment building is pretty tight on security, so I knew it had to be someone who lived in the building. I knew it wasn't my sister, because she tends to clutter through the door and trip over things and mumble to herself. Like a little tangle-haired ninja, I slid out of bed and picked up the first weapon like thing I could find- and a weapon it was. I could cause some mad damage with a Louisville Slugger, fo shiz. I crept out of my room, and saw The Lurker lurking in my kitchen.

Knowing that a sneak attack was the only way I'd get the upper hand, I did a penguin slide over the kitchen bench, misjudging my speed, shooting onto the floor and to the feet of The Lurker.

While I lay on the floor, clutching my slugger, staring up in horror expecting to see the snaggle toothed, murderous face of The Lurker, I realised that it was in fact my next door neighbour Kris, raiding the refrigerator. He was white as a ghost because apparently my ninja attack was pretty fricken' stealth and he didn't even see me coming before I came hurtling over the kitchen bench with a baseball bat.

Over the next few hours of night, my phone proceeded to vibrate almost half hourly with messages from people, including but not limited to Oscar, whose reason for calling EIGHT TIMES I still haven't determined.

Perhaps he was part of the sneaky "Let's Kill Trish From Lack Of Sleep" club.

I think he was.

into the morning

This morning I woke up. It wasn't anything new or exciting. It wasn't something life changing. It was just the simple process of rapid re-establishment of conciousness, and slooooow re-establishment of alertness.

I woke up and instead of going through the usual motions of wondering why I was a bit cold, why my legs were sore and why my alarm hadn't gone off (because I hadn't set it, that's why,) my mind was on a different wavelength.

My mind was still trundling on, replaying the dream that had been gracing me moments earlier, and as I rolled over, half awake, smiling to myself at how the mid morning sunlight filled my all-white room and made everything look so much lovelier.

I couldn't get to sleep the night before and it had been frustrating me, I was missing the feel of someone next to me, I was missing the feel of someone stronger and braver holding me and protecting me through the night. It's nice to know that when you wake up to face the world, you're not facing it alone.

But sleep had cleaned that slate, I woke up fearless and light and happy and all sorts of lovely things, I knew that today was going to be a good day. Not dramatic, not life changing, not huge, but the kind of day that makes going to sleep that night so much easier, because only good dreams can come from it.

As I woke up, I was reminded of good things and good times, waking up in love, waking up to someone's warm and gentle kisses, to flowers delivered to my door by someone I care for, to fruit and yoghurt and blueberry pancakes. Although this morning I woke up alone, I woke up in love.

It's not new love and it's not love for a person. It's love for possibilities and potential. For the simple chance that one day, very very soon, somebody will be waking up alongside me, and see the things I saw, and feel the way I felt. Maybe he'll be waking up to a warm body and soft kisses and the feeling that maybe, despite everything, it would be a good day.

and daylight speaks to me

When I lived in Bunbury, I had a particular spot at the beach where I used to go and just be. I would spend hours and hours sitting there, day or night, reading or thinking or sleeping or chatting to friends on the phone, but when I would leave, I would feel like a better version of myself. I don't know what it was exactly, the sun or the fresh air, the seclusion or the ocean itself, but it was something that I valued more than most other things in my life.

Now that I live two and a half hours away from there, I had this idea of trying to find a new place to go. All the extra stresses of peak hour and trains and horrid people and full time work and lack of money and time were catching up to me, and I couldn't find peace in the city, or at Kings Park, or near the Bell Tower. I tried the coffee shop in Angus and Robertson, Cino-To-Go near the Esplanade, I was constantly on the hunt for somewhere where I didn't have to be anything in particular. It was hard enough finding a niche at work, I was a surfer girl, but I had piercings and tattoos and long dark hair, not the typical wholesome healthy fresh white blonde look of some of the other girls I work with.

I think my main issue was that I wasn't near the ocean, which is one of my true loves in life. When I was a little kid, I asked Charlie where I came from and he told me this story about how he was walking along the beach one day, and I washed up in a wave and rolled all the way up to him. Naturally, he picked me up and put me in his pocket and took me home and there I've been ever since.

I believed this story for a good four years until my mother found out, and set me straight with the graphic details of how I really came about.

Consequently I was disappointed with the truth, as nine months of floating in amniotic fluid did not give me any hints as to why I was such a water nymph.

Anyway, I couldn't sleep one night, so at roughly 2a.m., I got out of bed, drove the few minutes down the road to Cottesloe, and swam out to the crumbling old pylon where I sat for almost an hour. The next day on the train, although I was still salty and my hair was in massive salt water tangles down my back and I resembled more of a beached mermaid than a working girl, I was a thousand percent happier. I was smiling at people on the train, I didn't mind the drunk man asleep on the floor in front of the doors, I was skipping down Murray Street to work, I was more myself than I've been since I moved.

I guess that I'm lucky that I know roughly what makes me happy, when millions of people the world over sleep-walk through life, not knowing that this kind of bliss even exists.

Maybe I should give them a hug.