This week has been pretty horrible. The stress at work with the lead up to Christmas is unlike any I have ever known, the early wake-up calls, the long nights- the in between.
Throw in 2 rather scary hospital appointments. Nearly passing out on the tube. Actually passing out on the way home- and you have my Christmas week.
But- the one thing that has kept me going, and made things just a little bit bearable is by throwing myself into my writing. I’m still unsure what I am going to do with it, although I have had so many messages from you, asking me to share more about the story; more importantly who Mr S actually is.
The latter, I am not going to share just yet. But I will give you another piece of the story. Once again, please share your thoughts with me, I love hearing them; more importantly, hearing from you.
And if you don’t hear from me before- Have a VERY Merry Christmas.
The Morning After.
Last night after another long, thoughtful and painstrickenly fast conversation, I say fast. We were talking from morning, to night.
I tasked Mr. S in creating a story- creating our first date in as little or as much detail as he liked. This is something I ask people quite regularly. Male or female. A way of finding out something a little bit personal about them, a side that they probably only show to a fair few. The words they describe, have hidden meanings. And there was nothing I loved more than finding out what those meanings really could mean.
Mr. S did just this.
But in a way that left the imagination wanting more, even though he had described every possible detail- in the most poetic of ways.
I was instructed not to read the message until I woke up the next morning for work- I obliged. The thought of doing so, made me wish morning would arrive quicker- something I never thought I would do. But for him, it was becoming a regular occurance.
The message read beautifully- something I had picked up at 5am that Monday morning seemed to change.
Laying in bed, eyes half-closed my mind was racing with the thoughts and situations Mr. S was so eloquently laying out in front of me. Now I’m sure you would all like to know what story he had created- but some things are supposed to be kept secret. Even though the details were relatively normal: a beach walk, a pub lunch, Lexi in tow. It’s the way in which he created that moment in time just for us, and even though I was reading what he had written hours later- for that split moment, it was like we were both experiencing it for the first time, at the same time and nothing could take that away from us.
What story would you create, if I was to ask you the same question?
The dark winter seemed to shine brighter that morning.
Even the radio seemed to sing a little bit sweeter.
And even though I did my routine exactly the same way as I do every morning at 6am, everything just seemed that little bit easier- as I sat there applying my make-up, something I dread doing, for I have to sit and stare at my face for unneccessarly longer than I would like. My face seemed to look smoother, and I didn’t completely hate my hair. My outfit I had chosen the night before, just seemed to fit my body exactly right and I left my house without any fuss or hassle.
I chose to walk without music that morning.
And the world seemed to create its own song, something I had missed so many mornings before by trying to hide away.
The distant hum of cars speeding past carrying commuters on their way to work, the sound of my shoes crunching on the frosty ground below. The wind blowing against the trees whistling, joining in, in fear of being left behind.
I had never liked Mondays before.
But that day: monday’s were my favourite.