It’s been a little while hasn’t it?
I managed to move in to that affordable flat that I was willing the universe to send to me through endless manifestations and positive thinking.
A lovely flat with my friend and my dear cat, Daisy. A flat that is so much more spacious and quiet than I ever thought possible for London.
Much like how I decorate my new room with little trinkets (some new, some brought from Devon), I now decorate my days with activities, new and old. Activities that I want to do.
Once again, Sundays have become my favourite day of the week. My phone is turned off, I catch up with Great British Bake Off, and I practice painting with watercolours. I’ve joined the library too and have spent countless hours cuddled up with my cat just reading.
This new room reflects my mind. It’s mine now. I haven’t been able to say that since, gosh, I don’t remember when. Memories aren’t forced upon me of the time Mum was ill and- no. There’s a calmness now.
This space is mine, my time is mine, my mind is mine. I share it with who I want to.
What a luxury.
Someone told me once that I’d be happy, but I’d be alone.
Reflecting on that comment, I catch myself smiling sometimes. After such chaos what a luxury to finally feel so peaceful on my own? What a luxury to be able to be so self-centred, so selfish? What a luxury, to have normal complaints that friends my own age can relate to? What a luxury to moan and laugh about our troubles with men rather than query what type of landlord insurance I need and how the heck do I declare tax? What a luxury to make a last minute decision to go to that party and wake up the next day covered in glitter and hazy memories from the night before – What a luxury to feel 24?
Sometimes, not knowing what to do with this new-found freedom, I just lie back on my bed. I revel in the morning sunshine that casts rainbows all over my my bedroom walls, refracting through the sun catcher hanging in my window.
Mum would love these rainbows.
Inevitably, I also think of the growing space between us now. The distance, but also the space that time has created over these last 14 months.
London has been a drastic change from Devon. I’ve started a job that she will never hear about. I’ll never tell her my London anecdotes. I’ll never again hear her say “Oh, I just love the theatre, you must go, you must!”
I see countless faces on the tube every day. In all of them, I still search for hers. And I wonder, is my mum less real in a place where none of these faces knew hers?
Is my mum less real in my new flat, in my “new” life that she will never visit?
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