I´ve been writing my whole life, been consumed by stories to the point of outgrowing every library and bookshelf I could reach. Slowly, the world caught up, and I can no longer spend my weeks reading three books in one day. (A superpower that seems to only bring me joy, no real life applications of this skill yet).
Mainly my writing has been stuck in essays, short stories, words written for marking and in little books to contain all the secrets.
As I have aged they are collected in journals, that follow me from place to place, containing memories of temporary homes created in rough areas with a kitchen too small to walk into, no signal on anything, no wifi, no tv, and a year of living alone.
Of the love affairs that combusted and twisted in vicious and violent ways, that are recorded as though a roadmap leading to an end that I wished I had seen coming.
Of poems and half written pages on trains-
Full of the mundane: Grocery lists, things to do this week lists, plans for birthdays and holidays and christmas gifting lists. There are lists to buy milk, and to buy more paint.
And desolute wishes written crying in the dark on a cold kitchen floor.
But there are notes, of the loveliness of being. Of freshly baked apple cake, of the hug by my giant of a brother, how it feels to be held in the safety of someone who has lived almost like you and sees all your scars, knowing they have the same scars too.
There are stories of people who I don´t even miss.
In a boring, time passes by way, without any raised fists.
But mainly these stories transcribe a life.
Notes of a life.
Never planned, not every day. But the way the world works until you think of something to say.
Recently I realised my only fear of writing on the internet was how people would react.
But I also remembered that I have lived a life not everyone has.
And that there is power in these stories that stray from the norm, of embracing that I have never met another person who has lived through what I have.
And maybe this is a way to reach out, and find that one person, to let them know they aren´t alone.
So this is me.
A Feminist, dreaming of being an activist.
A English expat in Spain.
A baker with a fondness for lemon cake.
A girl who owns too many cookbooks for someone who isn´t a chef.
(A person who thinks they are funny when maybe I´m not).