I don’t mind being alone. I don’t really long for anyone. I miss people. I love people. But I will see them again. One day. Here in the quiet space of a small town with foggy mornings and inspiring views, I have space to create, dream and think. I can close myself behind my door and just focus on pouring out a story from my imagination. In the early morning, when the door is still closed, I can transfer my dreams onto paper, recording the greatest most creative work ever thought up. My subconscious writes stories to me while I sleep, feeding me the faces of friends, intertwining disaster with beauty. Always memorable moments.
Here I have the space to think and be alone. Alone is not a scary adjective, it’s powerful. Here I don’t have friends that are in the same city and are impossible to reach. Here few people are just a phone call away. At this moment in time, I have the liberality to create, mix, test. It is just the right amount of disconnect. I’ve got one hour a day to write back home and let people know how I am doing and then the rest is devoted to exploration, feeling, capturing. I’m not interested in lovers in these parts, I can’t express myself well enough to achieve that. I am just looking for friends, people with whom to share parts of my day, vent in times of frustration, people who are just far enough so that I can close the door and write.
For some reason being in a foreign culture gives me the space to create and to write. It may be that it feels as if I am the only one who nurtures the English language. I’ve been entrusted to create stories of my imaginings using this language completely my own and not spoken. Day-to-day life is just different enough that it doesn’t usurp or intrude. It simply feeds me more, I am awake to all the differences that exist. In a culture not my own, I am the right kind of awake to observe, question and capture. I enjoy my time abroad, it gives me time to see again.