Passing time.

Letting go of the old and beholding the new is such a liberating notion, especially when you’re basking in such a stunning setting.

Parked on a dune I looked out at the sea. It seemed endless. I looked out across the horizon and all I could think of was new beginnings, limitless possibilities and freedom. There were children in the distant playing in the waves. Their faint laughter was heard in the wind. What joy.

Within the setting there seemed to be so many promises, so many possibilities and yet within my soul there was such confinement; a trapped sadness. I wouldn’t let it rule - I couldn’t. Instead I closed my eyes and breathed in the salty air.

They say times heals all wounds.

Time. How much?

My time with Sam and her friends came to a close, and my time solo once again commenced.

To Glasgow I would go.

With nothing planned but the bed I would sleep in, I was welcomed by the most bleak of scenes. The city and sky were in matching attire: grey. A haze settled over the city and I found myself looking over my shoulder more often than not.

I didn’t like it. I felt unsafe. It was as though something was lurking in my midst and I couldn’t put my finger on it.

Trying not to let fear or frustration taint my experience, I purposefully set out to explore the city, to find something joyous - anything.

I entered a cafe. I ordered and went to write. They were rude. I left.

I encountered another stranger. We connected beautifully, it ended abruptly…

The colour of my disposition was very quickly matching that of the city. It seemed ridiculous. I found myself wondering why on earth I was there, why I felt I was meant to be there… Silence. Nothing came to mind.

Wandering the streets aimlessly, time passed, days passed, and then something happened. Stumbling across a hidden gem in the student district, I found myself back on stage. What a feeling. The stage may have been small, the other performers may not have had training, but the poets had something in common, passion.

Sharing my poetic tales and hearing theirs, it was wonderful. There was both a creative connection and a feeling of understanding. A part of me that had been dormant was waking up.

Life started to come out the stillness. I started to see the city in a new light. I explored the University, the botanical gardens… Grey undertones became a base to a beautifully evolving picture.

Entering the Art Gallery I arrived just in time - an organist was playing the ancient instrument. Listening to the 30 minute recital, a melody captured my heart. Moon River resounded. Not a tune usually played on such an instrument, the organist found a unique delicacy and it was haunting beautiful. In the vast hall I found my mind wandering, drifting...

In the dreamlike state I found myself walking to the Necropolis. It was nearing dusk and when I entered the City of Dead a grief so pure and potent was impressed upon my heart.

The City of Death overlooked the City of Life.

So much effort had been invested in immortalising the people past, positioning their place of rest on a hill, the Victorian monuments, the tombstones, the graves… for what? I read the tombstones. I felt the pain from the people lost, I read hope, love, I saw their lives scribed and felt overwhelmed… I was walking on soil soaked in tears.

Generation upon generation of grief drenched the hill… There were so many dormant stories, lost stories. I wondered if we were remembering the right ones?

That question echoed in my mind.

Was I remembering the right stories… in my own life and in others?