Don’t get lost in a pile of must-dos.

My creativity is screaming from within to overlook the pile of must-dos and instead get lost in the carefully mixed messages beautifully filling my mind at the moment. To indulge in fantasies, storytelling and hardcore writing on an old-school typewriter wearing nothing but a pyjama shirt and woolly socks. To sit in front of a fire place listening to the winds sweeping across the moors, the rain whipping ferociously against the windows, tea pot whistling in the background. Nina Simone on repeat while the tea bag soaks in the hot water. Morning hair with a pen stuck behind my ear, marks on my lips from biting them while words flow out onto the paper in front of me

I wanna dance in the rain in front of a rocking sea, I wanna serenade the moonlight and admire the silence. I want to grow as a human, spread my roots in the ground and find my inner peace. I want to dance, dance, dance. I want to sit in my boathouse getting lost in music and the the keys of the typewriter. To see my fingers bounce up and down as my words visualise on the paper. I want to feel inspired. I want to be immersed in Jo..

She longed to hear a knock on the door.. feel the excitement.. the tingling feeling of pure passion. She wanted to open the door and see him standing there in his rugged jeans, his five o’clock shadow, his knitted sweater and boots. Hair all tussled. “I’m cooking” he’d say. “You pour.” while handing her a bottle of red. “Nina Simone?” he would ask. “She will do for now”. He would take charge as soon as he steps into the house, her sacred space. He always did. And weirdly enough, she would let him. She would expect him to cook her seafood, locally fetched and ridiculously fresh, but he’d surprise her and do a curry. He doesn’t like to be predictable. She’d ask him where he had been for the last couple of weeks, why he hadn’t answered her messages. He’d look at her and say “you wouldn’t like the answer”. The over-thinker in her would immediately start to imagine that it had something to do with their last encounter. He’d stop me right there and say “get out of your head Jo. I like you present. Besides, I’ve missed you”. And she’d be lost again. She would still be in her head though, thoughts piling up. He would remove his knitted sweater revealing a crispy white t-shirt, lean down to remove his socks and rubs his hands. He’d look at Jo straight in the eyes with piercing grey eyes, barefoot and determined. He’d tilt his head just slightly and say “let’s feed those thighs of yours, shall we. They look famished.”

I wanna write.

Love from Stockholm ❤️

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