I have come to Bologna, Italy. I am sitting on the veranda and the sky is overcast. All around me are orange and red painted buildings. They look dusty and scarred, yet beautiful. There are plants dangling and white washing is suspended on thin wires under tall windows with green shutters. I just had a whole conversation with an Italian using mostly made up sign language. We managed to understand each other after lots of puzzled faces and giggling. I know a few Italian words, most of which are unrepeatable. I learnt them in a love affair with a Roman. I learnt passion and romance with him. I also learnt how a broken heart can be turned into beauty. It takes time of course to see that.

I didn't really write in London. I took my camera to the streets alot and found my voice through pictures, but I couldn't write. I wrote one piece for my father's wedding. It was about love and I sat down to write it so many times but nothing would come out, my voice fell out and missed the page. I realised that part of me didn't know what love is anymore. It took me being still and remembering and releasing all that love wasn't, for my words not to slide off the page and to form a verse.

I am finding balance again. I had to go to the far end of unpredictability and utter consuming passion for me to meet myself. I got so lost in putting up with half a life that it took the ground to fall away and my heart to shake me into recognition. I know what love is now- it is that point where you meet yourself, where the ground holds still but your heart still beats in your mouth.

Love your life.

You will find the love of your life in that.


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