#TuesdayTales – We blossomed in spring

Seeing the bubble-gum pink petals circle around my ankles in the light breeze reminded me of Japan – and you.

I’d felt lost, I turned to a place I’d dreamed of going for as long as I could remember. My mundane nine to five had been testing me and truly pushing me to my limits. So I quit. The repercussions could wait.

Day four of my trip; we took the same garden tour in Kyoto. I noticed you wielding a pencil and an artist’s pad, sketching with a sense of pride at the beauty that stood before you.

I couldn’t help but stare, drinking you in just as much as the scenery. In an area of vibrant pinks and burnt oranges, you were the brightest feature.

On the journey to the next stop in the tour, we talked, soon realising that we had a lot in common and were both here soul searching, trying to find another purpose rather than just crunching numbers or sending mind-numbing e-mails.

The rest of the tour sped past us as we laughed and enjoyed each other’s company over the day; dragging it out to dinner, then drinks, finally indulging in one another back at the minute apartment he was renting for his stay. Out of character for us both apparently, I believed him.

I smiled, recalling waking up next to him, wishing I would get the chance to see his wide smile and hazel eyes, to run a hand over his caramel skin; even to kiss his lips just once more.

We’d agreed – two weeks. The token holiday, or how he’d put it, ‘vacation’ romance; I couldn’t agree on not thinking about him, not that that request had escaped his lips.

The fallen blossom at my feet back here at home, reminded me of what I wanted and what I was grateful for – escapism. I felt grateful that every year without fail, my memories would also bloom in the reminiscence of you.


(Image by yours truly. The blossom at the bottom of my garden inspired today’s tale.)

#TuesdayTales – ‘No bad Whiskey’

We sipped on whiskey and reminisced about the old days. We laughed about how drunk his grandmother got one Christmas and on our tree, breaking it in half as she hit the ground with a thud.

My eyes were fixed on his, smiling as I saw him do the same, talking about our history. He managed to summarise memories from the past nine years, somehow without leaving a stone unturned.

I missed him.

I missed this.

This had been the second time in seven months we’d met since we had called ‘time’ on our relationship. I felt as if our time apart had done us a lot of favours.

We’d managed to hash out a lot of past issues; since we’d had space, my thoughts of him had been more on what I’d missed, rather than what had irritated me previously.

I loved hearing him laugh, watching his stunning emerald eyes glint as we struggled for breath from laughing so much.

Tonight was set in stone at just how much I’d truly missed him and having him around. I felt that we’d gotten complacent with one another before, we’d taken each other for granted.

I simply hoped that in his recalled memories with that beautiful smile I loved so much, that he thought the same.


(Image via Google.)

#TuesdayTales – ‘Blood on my hands’

I threw the knife across the room in horror as I brought my blood-drenched palm to my lips.

Backing away from his lifeless body, the mist that had once descended on me had now vapourised. Everything around me suddenly felt cold, as if his soul had left his host, leaving a ravaged shell on the tiled floor and blood substituting for grout.

I paced frantically, trying to remember something, anything, to spark my psyche and piece together what the hell happened here.

Staring as his body, I witnessed the crimson pool beside him getting bigger and bigger, being careful to step back as the river of life flowing towards me almost kissed the tips of my sneakers; I felt sick. If I didn’t know what went on, how in the world was I going to explain this to the police?

I’d never been a violent person in my life; I had always shied away from confrontation as soon as it arose. Never did I think in a million years that I would wake from an apparent blackout, wielding a kitchen knife, covered in blood.

I had two options – call the cops and wait for them to show, trying to convince them that I honestly hadn’t a clue as to what went on here or grab the knife, dump it and run.


#TuesdayTales – Through A Lens

Silence was deafening to a lonely mind. For the first time in what felt like years, I had a night to myself. I heard the fuzz of speechless air, the whirring of the refrigerator and even ambient noise to entertain me this evening. No rustling of bushes holding photographers, no screaming paparazzi behind velvet ropes asking me to look in every direction. Just myself, completely alone.

I always felt as if I craved my own time, to just be alone an free of work, being able to feel content with a glass of aromatic red, tucked under a blanket and watching re-runs of nineties sitcoms.

Truth be told, I continuously felt at my most vulnerable and at the summit of my loneliness in a room filled with people.

Those people were not my friends, they were employed to be in my company, employed to fulfil every request I may have no matter how inane or beneath them it may be. I loathed the thought of utilising that power. The reason why I had even met those people in the first place was due to them being assigned to me.

Security, hair, make-up, stylists –you name it, I’d had it. It felt as if I wasn’t allowed to do anything for myself anymore.

I didn’t want pity; I chose this life. However, the clause of ‘you will lose all privacy and sense of yourself’ was clearly part of the contract I’d skim-read. Being surrounded by ‘yes men’ all day hadn’t been doing me any favours, either. I simply didn’t know who to trust anymore, and as for relationships far from business-like, forget it. I’d rather the column inches were saved for someone else, thanks.

What I missed most of all was genuine interaction. My memory couldn’t recall a time in which I was called for my time or a conversation, not a favour or money. My time appeared worth only something in return. I was worth being photographed with, worth roping into a relationship and giving my heart only for a story to be sold to the press.

Looking out of the window made my heart ache; viewing normal human interaction struck a warped jealousy within me. Adoration was overrated – the fame I had accrued over the years was a facet I now looked at incredibly negatively.

As for fans, I felt ever grateful for their love and positivity, but I couldn’t help but feel guilty as they approached me excitedly, wanting a picture and to talk about my latest project or interviews with smiling eyes. I happily obliged as I didn’t want to let them down; they didn’t need to see how unhappy I truly was. As for five minutes out of their day upon that initial encounter, I felt required to be the ‘public’ version of myself, the critically acclaimed actress, the joker on a nightly talk show – I didn’t want to show them the weak, recluse-in-training I felt myself flowering into.

To have people know my name and to have them feel as if they truly knew me was something that I still struggled to wrap my head around. I loathed being put on a pedestal to others who felt that I was above them in some distorted sense of a modern world. I wanted the golden plinth kicked from underneath me, giving my public a premier ticket to watch my seemingly preened and untouchable exterior shatter.

Being up here and looking down on the streets of civilians wasn’t the life for me anymore; I wanted to be walking among others, being part of society where I could weave through crowds unknown. I craved to be normal, to be treated as just another person; I yearned to be me again.


(Image via Google.)

#TuesdayTales – ‘New Beginnings’

new beginnings.jpg


I smiled as I looked back to the house, finally feeling the weight lift off of me. Staring at the front door filled me with warmth as I knew I’d never have to wake up and relive the memories inside those walls again.

The sun kissed my cheek before a small breeze took away its affection. I looked to the ‘sold’ sign; for the first time in years I’d felt the black cloud that had loomed over me finally break, letting the rays pour through.

I felt its intimidating presence fizz away as I noticed the house’s colour wash over its wooden panelling; as if someone had carelessly tossed a covered paintbrush into a mason jar full of clear water. I watched the colour bleed over the exterior, seeing the life pour back into the house.

Families could make a thousand memories here; they could fill the living room with laughter and the dining room with love, future Christmas dinners and poorly written jokes from a cracker.

A place I had looked at so negatively for as long as I could remember was due to be someone’s new beginning, someone’s fixer-upper – a house to nurture and make into a home for generations to come.

I felt grateful that I was now able to start afresh, to start my new beginning on my own terms. Yes – I was definitely sold on that.



(Image taken from Pintrest.)