Thursday, 11.50 am. I’m sitting at the kitchen table in my new home. It is another rainy day; I can’t even see the ocean in the horizon but I don’t mind. Cars are splashing through puddles of water and somewhere someone’s playing Crowded House’s Don’t dream it’s over. The flock of parrots that normally resides on the roof, occasionally on our balcony too, has gone into hiding and I just lit a few candles and got myself a cup of hot water.

A cup of hot water, not tea. Something that my mom used to drink when we were kids and probably still does; something that I could never get my head around why someone wants to do as there are so many other options available, but here I am.

“… hey now, hey now, don’t dream it’s over…”

It is my day off. Today and tomorrow are, and I’m in no rush and it feels so good. Having worked for the past six days, two double shifts and two moving days included, this day did not come a day too early.

I’ve been exhausted, not only because of long days at work but because of the creativity course that I’m taking, which requires me to write something called ’morning pages’ every day. Every morning when I wake up the first thing I (should) do is write three pages, preferably A4’s, by hand, to wake up my creative brain. The point is to activate the creative brain and wake up the subconscious mind before our logical brain is switched on and we start executing our day. Check your phone, get up, jump in the shower. Get dressed, brush your teeth, have a quick breakfast. Shit, I’m going to miss the bus!

Leave for work. Work, coffee, work, lunch; meetings, emails, phone calls… And so on.

So what do you write? Anything, anything that comes to mind and if nothing comes to mind then that’s what you write: ”Nothing comes to mind, I have nothing to say. Nothing comes to mind, I have nothing to say. Nothing com…”.

You get the drill. Three pages of anything; everything and nothing, however you feel. Three pages.

Provided that I want to do this, which I do, I need to get up at least an hour earlier than normal. Even though work is a mere five kilometers away it takes me an hour (!) to get there (I need to get a bike!), which means I need to leave home (how weird does that sound, saying ’home’?) at 5.30 am on days that I have the morning shift, which means I should get up at 4 am in case I want to make time for a full three pages…

… zzzzz.

It takes some getting used to, it definitely does. I need my sleep, I want my sleep, especially now that I have my own bed, which, by the way, is the cheapest we (or Laure, my roommate who so kindly took care of it for both of us) found, but so comfortable. Being able to come home, even though it’s far away compared to the hostel that was just 10-minute walk from work, without having to chitchat with people first in the common room and kitchen, then in the elevator and corridor and, if you’re super lucky, the bathroom as well, until you finally get to your room and see someone new has arrived and nooooooo, I just want to be by myself…

“… there’s a freedom within, there’s a freedom without…”

Don’t take me wrong, but compared to that this is pure luxury. A two-bedroom apartment, one that I share with a British girl, Reena, and a French girl, Laure, located in the Eastern suburb of Bronte a mere five-minute walk from beach. Nice and modern and situated on the top floor of a three-story building, it is filled with light. We have a big balcony overlooking the neighborhood with the ocean in the horizon, making the opening of a window the only thing that stands between us and a fresh sea breeze… I must say I enjoy being away from the chaos of the city.

Having my own bed and my own closet in my own, although shared, bedroom (I share with Laure), and a kitchen and a living room and a bathroom with all relevant furniture included, not to mention a balcony with views over the ocean… It is pure luxury, it really is, even though most days are rainy and I haven’t even made it to the beach yet. Soon, though.

And yet there’s something that doesn’t feel right, something that’s wrong, because I don’t think anything’s missing. I don’t know what it is, maybe I’m just not used to it yet, I don’t know, or maybe it’s fear for settling down and actually doing what I came here to do as I have no idea where it’ll take me, and what if I don’t like it? Or, worse (although why??), what if I do?

“… now I’m walking again to the beat of the drum
and I’m counting the steps to the door of your heart…”

 

That one morning when I woke up, stepped out onto the balcony and got blinded by the sunlight.

Home is where you create it, they say.

Time will tell.

xx Anna