Drawing my eyes open I have that uncomfortable feeling where you remember everything that troubles you. Where you leave the blissful solace of your subconscious and get hauled kicking and screaming back into reality.


Dragging myself out of bed I throw on the jeans I’ve been wearing all week and the top that still smells of that boy’s bedroom floor. His smell on my skin lingered longer than his name in my head. I shove on my eyeliner and ruffle my blonde crop. I’m never sure who I make myself look good for… I just know I do. But it’s been so long since anyone inspired me enough to really care, I’m started to miss the point. Catching sight of myself in the mirror I scowl at the girl looking back. It would seem today is a day for vanity and self loathing.  


The monotony of Sundays always gets me. Nowhere to go, nothing to do, no one to see. But it’s beautiful outside today. The sky has an iridescent shine that, alone, inspires me enough to write a thousand sonnets. I’ve always noticed the small things.


Pulling on the token old battered converse I mooch downstairs, checking my pockets as I go. I-pod, keys, cigarettes. I have no use for my phone when I feel like this. People can’t find me and I like it that way.


I start on the walk to my destination- my tree. My field, my tree, my hide-away. Walks in the sun always make me feel good. Head held high, breeze ruffling my hair, sun blinding me. They’re a chance to think, to reflect and to predict. As I sit at the base of my old wooden companion, I spark up one of my many Marlboros. Feeling the warm soothing air fill my lungs I realise I don’t need people. I used to search for the meaning of life. Through music, through books, through films. To ask my beliefs on the big question is now an oblique respect. I merely search for inspiration, and to inspire. And I have all the inspiration in the world, right here in my chest. I’m just waiting for my catalyst.


I can feel the sun beating on my back as my trusty pen scratches the pad. I hear the birds, feel the breeze. I am at one with nature. I am alive. In the background to the silence I hear a dog bark, the distant roar of traffic, the hum of one hundred million television sets. I am at one with my city. I am alive. It’s all so obscurely beautiful.


Looking through my bag for my lighter, I find an old cinema ticket. From way back when I was with him. Tucking it in my pocket, I know that I’ll place it in the box with all the other things from him. The teddy, the frayed notes, the old decaying rose. It makes me wonder why I keep all these things. Things I associate with someone whom I no longer see, who no longer cares for me, whom I no longer care about. Him. Why keep the redundant items? I have the memories locked away… But to throw the keepsakes away would be sacrilegious and would hurt me more than I could put into words.


I also find my thoughts wandering to what the box full of memories becomes, one I have forgotten most of the memories. Just a box of useless objects? Rendered pointless by a forgetful mind? Surely not… But what else could they be? Funny how the mind plays tricks, making you lose the recollections most precious, and hold onto those most trivial.


Returning home I find my acoustic, Nancy, sat being burnt by a beam of sun through the blinds. She reflects it, sits there intently, begging to be played. To which I will oblige her, holding dear the memories, holding dear the inspiration.