It’s been a few days since I put pen to paper (or whatever the online equivalent is). Spring is nudging into the days; the skies bright, interspersed with heavy rain and winds that whip through the budding trees. The garden is still stark and empty and I sit on the doorstep taking in the sight before me. The hens scatter as the dog barrels down the lawn. The boys weave in and out on bikes or kicking a ball. It’s February and I love it. I. Love. It
It’s been a week of familiar rhythms and the simplicity of being so at ease with your surroundings that the days blend seamlessly into one long cadence.
We have painted and cooked, spent time with family, read book after book after book, been swimming, made boats and sailed them with friends and spent more time together than I ever thought it possible without getting sick of each other.
Yet these rhythms leave me restless. It often feels as if I am living the same seven days over and over. Sometimes I think I couldn’t possibly stomach another day of small-talk. I want to know the stories behind who you are, the lines on your face, the residual grief that clings to you, the scars left from stories untold. Tell me your dreams and how you’re going to get there.
You get to a point in friendship, where you’ve known someone so long they think you know everything about them. Yet they forget they never told you the story. They never sat you down and said, ‘this is why I am the way I am.’
I don’t want your small-talk. I don’t want your niceties. I’m begging for reality, raw and unbounded. No filters.
I need somebody to tell me a story I haven’t heard before. I want new places, new faces, a different view from my front window.
These same seven days and something has to change.