Still Space


I used to make my bed every morning.

That’s just what you do,



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I’ve learnt

to think

for myself.



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Chairs in bedrooms

were never meant to be

sat on.

They are where

galactic giraffes

make nests at night.





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I’ve learnt

to ignore

the hoover:

I want to bring the outside in


I refuse to get rid of spiders.


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There isn’t a clear path

to the most important things in life.

That’s how I think

about my coffee.



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I’ll probably


wash one cup

and leave the rest.

As per usual.


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There’s no space for me here really…



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My coffee table

is too busy

for a cuppa.


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I don’t remember

the last time

I saw myself clearly.



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The dust

in my shower

reminds me

of how we all die in the end and none of this really matters.







The Memories We Hold

I am a magpie. My mission is to find pretty things to bring into my nest. I spend a lot of my time scavenging through charity shops, second hand shops and eBay on a hunt for objects. There is something extraordinarily precious about things that have a history, a memory, that they hold.

I bought a deck of cards while visiting a local vintage boutique yesterday. It was a bit of a risk, I didn’t think to check if it had all the cards in it. Luckily, it did, and I got to relearn to play patience once I got home. The cards smell of old paper and leather, and the smell and the playing took me back somewhere. It wasn’t a singular memory, but a feeling or an atmosphere. I was taken back to my childhood, to a rainy summer day, to my best friend and to the house she used to live in.

It was the feeling of time passing by unhurriedly. There is nothing else to do, nowhere else to be and there is a lingering smell of rain coming through a window that we forgot to close. It didn’t matter.

Sometimes I get stuck into feeling like there are so many things to do and to be and to achieve. I forget that, actually, there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. There are no routines I’m stuck to, no plans that I have to do, no schedules. Nothing. I never have to become anything. Fundamentally, I already am all the things I will ever be.

Nothing more

nothing less

but me.


Everything I am and what I’ve accumulated is a compilation of other. Of memories. Of things that were. Of time.