I used to turn life into a poem.

Today, I got a message from a friend. A friend whom once I shared every hour of every day with – that was up until the day came that we went our separate ways, flights to separate countries. We’ve kept in touch, and today’s message was a photo. The photo was of a poem I wrote for her on my typewriter (at the time, a new secondhand addition to my London flat), and it was framed and on display in her sister’s bedroom. It was a poem I’d always loved; a poem about thinking and respecting where you’re sat

St. Pauls was and is my favourite building in London. I would walk past it, and it’s sheer size and beauty, would force an inhale of air to my lungs; a reminder that where I was, was spectacular.

st. pauls - a poem

i sit on the steps at st. pauls and i think, 
of how many people have stood where i am sat.
the years of history trampled under foot, 
under breath.

i sit on the steps at st. pauls and i think,
of how many people have walked past here crying, 
where they came from,
what they left behind that broke their hearts.
i ponder what year they lived.

i sit on the steps at st. pauls and i think,
of how many people have walked past here holding hands,
laughing,
talking to somebody,
thinking of someone.

at the steps at st. pauls i beg you to smile,
at the thought of where you're sat right now. 
where you are now has been there before you,
will be there after you, 
it hosts thousands of stories.

feel the stories, hear the stories,
be a story of your own. 

by paige bolland 

Yes, I used to live in London and contemplate life, and mind, under beautiful historic buildings, writing out my feelings as I went. But I don’t anymore. I guess I still struggle with not being that poetic with my feelings anymore, and I suppose this blog is an attempt at trying to understand and accept this.

Yes, I used to turn life into poetry, but now I’m too busy trying to live life to romanticise it –

– and that’s okay.

The Moon Is A Friend

Today has not been a good day.

I’ve had arguments over space, discussions about my face, and stress caused by money and the lack of its place. I’ve swallowed tears, my head has throbbed and my heart has raced, all in the last 24 hours.

I struggled to fall asleep, over nothing but a mind that won’t switch off, which led to a day where I didn’t even have the energy to smile. You don’t wear make-up anymore; how is your personal life? – I’m happy, and I’m enjoying my days between the nights, but these last 24 hours just haven’t been the best. I guess that is the problem with mental health, it never really leaves you. Like a moon, hidden behind clouds and daylight, it shines brighter some days, and can be invisible the next.

Today I listened to a song, which sang the romantic gesture of moon-giving. But when I look at the moon, I’m reminded of everything I stress about. I am reminded of the nights over the length of my life spent crying to the sky, wishing for a clear head, because where else do we look when our heads feel heavy. We look up, hoping to feel small; we look up, for advice from the universe. So when I see the moon, I see the projections of my past, not the romance I hear through my headphones.

“The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to.” ― Carl Sandburg, Poet

Even though I see the moon as a hole in the night sky where, since the age my head starting spinning, I’ve shoved everything to hide it away, I can recognise it’s beauty. A strange beauty. A love-hate beauty of past and future.

I’m merely thinking aloud.