a declaration.

“I’m glad you agreed to come here –” she started while taking particularly slow steps towards him to keep the coffee from spilling out of the cup she was holding in both hands, “– I have longed for privacy …”

He took the cup from her hands, being careful not to notice their shaking. He leaned back into the couch and looked around the quiet lounge.

“It’s a nice place you’ve got here,” he said quite simply and amiably, uncertain how to respond to her.

“Yes … ” she murmured absent-mindedly.

She sat at the other end of the couch and gave a big sigh. Then she stood up again, and paced about the room, evidently avoiding meeting his patient and curious gaze which she could feel was on her. At last, she took a seat on a chair at the dining table, and lowered her eyes to her hands resting on her lap.

“I have no other way of saying what I wish to say to you, so you must brace yourself. I have spent years trying to understand the what and the why of my feelings, and eventually found peace in accepting them. But this peace was no more when I — when I started wanting to tell you! And do not misunderstand me: I — I do not want to break your marriage, and have too much respect for you to have such kinds of intentions — but I do not know what my intentions are — perhaps, surely, only to express myself and tell you — tell you –“

There she sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “– that I am a little bit in love with you … and I love you very much — and have ever since I was a girl …”

this short hour.

You arrive, quite on time. Your shirt catches my attention: it is a light green colour, gentle on the eyes, and appears soft to the touch. For a moment, I consider complimenting you, for I really do think your shirt looks nice on you, and suits you; but the words in my heart fail to find a voice witch which to reach you.

We stand side by side at the counter of the café. Although it was me who invited you today, you take out your card (which I notice is slightly bent) and offer to pay.

“Would you like something to eat?” you ask, but I feel bad enough about you paying for my drink that I decline your offer, as kind and generous as I realise it to be.

We find a table and take a seat, opposite one another. As much as I long to speak with you, I suddenly feel very shy, and am at a loss as to what to say first. You seem to sense this immediately, and noticing my book on the table, ask me what I’m reading.

“Thomas Hardy – he’s my favourite author”, I manage to say, the nervousness transforming into excitement as there is little I enjoy more than books.

“Oh really? I have read all of his books.”

I can’t help but smile – somehow, learning that you like my favourite author enough to have read all of his works fills me with amusement and pleasure … not to mention that it is my intention also to read all of his novels. It seems you and I have similar libraries …

Our conversation turns to politics, which is not a topic I often find myself discussing. Yet, the more time passes, the more comfortable I become. It is in the way you speak to me, I believe: you express your views, but kindly, and always with a smile; you allow me room to speak, without judging nor criticising my thoughts; when you notice me unsure of myself, you keep the conversation going, easily and willingly.

And then an hour’s passed and you genuinely look sorry for having to get going. You apologise three times, as if perhaps you might have liked to stay with me some while longer. We part ways, saying good-bye and smiling (for smiling at each other we seem to do a lot of).

I am left feeling much alive, for this short hour with you was worth an infinite number of hours with strangers and acquaintances. I disliked nothing of our time together; on the contrary, it has only reinforced my dream-like notion that you are a very special and dear friend to me.

If I knocked.

I’ve always found your house oddly appealing. I suppose because it is well-kept, and no weeds seem to be growing in the front garden. Your house just looks nice, in the same way that houses can look sad, lonely, rude or proud. I like the quietness of your house, and how it stands contentedly on its piece of land, respecting its neighbours, uninterested in competing with them. When I see your house, I can’t help but stare – and I wonder if your house would to me feel like a home.

If I knocked, would you let me in? Seeing me through the peep-hole, would you sigh your disgust, frown with curiosity, or open the door unhesitatingly? Would you make me a cuppa, and tell me to make myself at home? Would you take me through all the rooms, even the ones at the back, those that typical guests aren’t allowed in? Would you tell me why some of your curtains are drawn open, while others are closed? Would you tell me the story of each photograph I see? Would you tell me what foods you eat, what books you read, what songs you listen to, and what plants you grow? Would you thank me for coming?

Tell me – if I knocked on your door, would you let me in?

Thank you for subscribing!

Just a quick post to thank my subscribers. I have crossed the 50 subscribers mark which may not sound like that many, but to me it means a lot. Writing was so important to me when I was a teenager; I think I started my very first writing blog about a decade ago. I’d post pretty much every day, and was very inspired and creative, and felt I had a unique writer’s voice … which as a writer, is what you dream of. To know that your work is completely unique.

I wrote less and less the older I got. Writing stopped being a priority as I focused on my tertiary studies. I never made enough time to truly sit with myself and allow my voice to speak to me. Whenever I sat down to write, I was disappointed with what I wrote. My writer’s voice became gradually more and more silent. I believe this was a symptom to a greater tragedy: disconnecting with myself.

This year I have made an effort to get back into writing, and having a blog on which to post my short poems, musings or fiction texts motivates me to continue writing, and finding my voice. I think writing is one of the most challenging things I make myself do, but for some reason, it is also the most beautiful and rewarding thing, I suppose because I can be my authentic, real self, when I write.

I am definitely going to keep posting on this blog. My aim for the new year is five posts a week. I am currently gathering resources to help me achieve this (things like books about writing, prompts, writing exercises etc etc). Though my favourite thing to write about are my feelings and experiences! I hope to have 200 followers by this time next year. And maybe have started on a novel by then too. Who knows. All I know is I love writing, and I am grateful to you for reading and supporting my work.

All my best wishes to you for 2021.

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