Tiny dots build the naive shape,
Of a blonde innocent lover.
On the doorstep of a lonely
wooden shelter, a teen plover.

As traces of clouds smoothly stain,
Pastel hues dye the morning sky.
The fading swing by the willow,
Frame the pure landscape on her eyes

While the bees rest in pigments of
lavender, young birds stretch their wings.
Scrubs masking a rabbit’s burrow;
Through the branches the sunlight springs

Fresh green meadows start to blossom;
Balancing leaves shadow her roots,
Cold feet on the watercolour;
Near the missing lake, a white goose

From her pale hands the fresco grows;
Behind the mountains the wind blows


Only a few days ago did I realize that writers do look at the world differently. Only a few days ago did I realize that before I knew I wanted to be a writer I was already one, because the way I watched the sunset behind the impotent Big Ben, from the National Gallery’s balcony was magical, and rich of comfortable noises that brought a silenced peace to my mind. And I knew then, at the age of 14, that I was made to watch those things, to live those moments of perfect fulfilment.

That was 5 years ago, but I still can see it on my mind, feel the cold air sharply hit my lungs, while I alone ignored the rest of the world that I lived in to contemplate the one before me. And then I sat on the wet stairs with someone that I knew (but I can’t quite remember who). What I do remember are the pictures people were taking and how they tried to escalate the giant Lyons or sat on the pink lighted fountains. And I know now what I didn’t know then, I had found myself a place, and a ‘me’ to live.