Warning: more navel-gazing ahead. Very MeMeMe at present.
This time last year I was travelling through the Karoo, with the sky opening above, expanding exponentially with the distance we got from the city. I could feel my lungs opening, my heart swelling. At that point, though, I had no idea of how those seven weeks in that magical place would affect me. How they would give me the space to think, to breathe, to rediscover myself, to write and write and to become friends with the most fabulous motley crew of people who are lucky enough to call that place home.
I returned to the city seven weeks later with every intention of going back, on a more permanent basis. But, as is wont to happen, the powers that be threw a whole bunch of reasons to stay a while longer in the city at me – love, life, death, the whole bang-shoot. The powers that be, apparently, don’t do things to me with half-measures.
I’m not complaining, I’m just stating. What is a life without falling in love, flying into the wind, changing course, somersaulting through? Boring, that’s what. A year down the line I look back at what has passed since I returned and I am amazed by the rollercoaster of the past twelve months, and exhilarated.
The highs have been higher than I could’ve dreamt of, blissful and carefree and sprinkled with hundreds and thousands (metaphorically speaking, otherwise that would just be sticky); the lows almost unbearable, choking me, making it hard to breathe.
But I’ve lived to tell the tale, and I feel stronger for it, mostly. In the corner of my room a grey mist still swirls menacingly, and sometimes wraps itself around me, leaving me sad and breathless. I’m trying very hard to blow it away, though, with the fresh, rapidly-warming spring air that’s fluttering through my open window.