Most perfect second day of the year in all the world. Was up early, coffee and watching the birds in the treacle light of summer. Cabin fever. Needing space. Breakfast and broad, wide and unhindered horizons at Mouille Point, just across from the landmark 1884 lighthouse by the same name.
Silently observe friends in a long-lasting but brittle relationship as they unpick each other. I leave them to it, in exchange for the freedom of the city and my life under my feet; have backpack will travel where and when I want taking none into consideration, but not unkindly.
I'm over-brimming with words; 'til now I've been too exhausted - and depressed - to fish then from the murky swamp of my mind and to 'real' them into tangible words on paper, or on to cloud-paper in the perfectly interconnected ether.
The ocean is again my inspiration as I imagine it connecting all the dots of the places I want to so badly visit, taste, to have relationships in as I contemplate hair, facial structures and words that I'm alien before. So that I may know for sure I am indeed alive and not the living dead, that I'm more than the sum of the parts of my routines and work-heavy patterns.
I sometimes forget: That the basis of life is absolute freedom, that the goal is joy, and that the result of that perfect combination is forward motion, i.e. growth.
I gouge out my eye and leave it on the minuscule terra cotta espresso cup saucer in lieu of a tip.
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