Alone But No Longer Lonely

At times, living and working alone can be somewhat lonely.  One finds oneself voicing thoughts aloud simply to break the silence, (and, yes I'm aware this places me firmly in the category of loon) and to reinforce one's opinions and thoughts - there is something rather affirmative about hearing a thought aired.  Today I was reminded that in reality, I am far from alone.  Whilst I may not see my dearest friends and family often, when faced with a potentially stomach-twisting meeting this morning, I felt utterly supported by the net of loved ones that were firmly holding me in mind.

This time last year I felt utterly on my one.  Made redundant, cast out and at risk of becoming very prickly in defence.  Yet I have now learnt the difference between being alone and on my own.  I have learnt to soften the boundaries, to invite my loved ones in because I simply want to feel them around me.  To take risks with emotions without fear of being rejected or discarded.  And my goodness.  What a wonderful risk to have taken.

Thank you darling friends and family, both here and abroad.  I feel held. I feel loved.  I feel blessed.

Lost & Found - Paris Globe

Snow globe, water globe, a tiny world encapsulated.  Hopes, fears, an exquisite moment in time, suspended, held.  Rehearsed.  Replayed.  Replayed.

Paris globe.  A personal history captured.  Teenage glow, burst of freedom. Shake of blonde hair, sticky crème de menthe, glimmer of potency.  Young bride, chocolatiers trail, West Bank snail sushi, a weekend of exploration whilst hearts were still beating in time and in tune.  The syncopation ends, a marriage crumbles.

Paris globe.  A new chapter begins. Golden balls floating, love rising, daring to dream.  Breathtaking days, powerfully feminine, on show, on heat, on message.  Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe, “place your bets please”, hooves and hearts pounding, Brits abroad drinking, Brits abroad swearing, this Brit pretends to be French.  Le Tour Eifel pulsating in lights.  Cocktails.  Cock.  Interminable queuing at Relais de Venise for non-steak eating Clare.  Cocktails.  Cock.

Paris globe.  A tiny world rehearsed, replayed, reduced.  Horseracing, “place your bets please”, Brits abroad drinking, Le Tour Eifel pulses, queuing for lettuce so the meat-eaters can guzzle.  Cocktails.  Cock. Utter Cock.  A personal light flickers, diminishes.  No longer on message, losing the way, losing oneself in the image of perfection.  The ideal couple, a gossamer lie. Red baubles tumbling, heart pounding sobs.  Cascading dreams and promises of futures.  The snow globe cracks.

Paris globe.  A story continues.  The chrysalis rustles, the woman emerges, hesitant, scared.  Golden balls floating, daring to dream.  To believe that hearts heal.  A night out alone, a test of one’s sex.  A smile, a shrug, a shake of blonde hair, a glimmer of potency.  “Oui, oui, j’ai un chambre”.  Hot, eager, smelling of musk.  A smile, a pivot on green heels, a stiletto dash to solitude, laughter held in the humid night.  A female briefly reborn.

Snow globe, water globe.  A tiny world encapsulated. Baubles that topple and soar when provoked.  Paris globe.  Plastic coated story of a girl that grows up.