Another Autumn

Another Autumn and another new city. This time it’s with with Xavier and it feels… hard.

I’ve been quiet for a long time, almost a whole year: new jobs, new homes and new expectations have rolled by. The leaves are turning already and the sun is dipping lower every evening. I have that gentle autumn feeling again, it feels glowy and warm, but as ominous as it always feels for me.

This autumn I’m carrying Xavier (and myself). So although it feels heavier, it’s a different kind of weight. My partner’s baggage isn’t just heavy, it’s slippery, impossible to cling onto. One moment I think I have it firmly on my shoulders and the next it’s slipped down my back and it’s slithering away from me. It’s taken Xiaver a long time to recognise he has a problem, but the problem has a habit of slipping right back into place.

So, I’m going to watch the leaves change, as I do every year, and as they drop I will think of Saffron. The Saffron that wandered amongst the changing trees and wrote these entries 3 years ago never believed I would get here. If Saffron could outstand the hurricane that forced its way through her, then I surely can carry this weight.

– Saffron

Another autumn

So I’ve passed the biggest milestone I’ve set myself. The Master’s is finished and I’m moved back home. So what now? Literally, what now?

I’m sitting in the park as I write, as I always do this time of year. The leaves are changing from green to gold, as they always do, and the air is turning cool, as it always does. And like last year, I feel myself filling with excitement. The unknown that lies ahead isn’t quite as terrifying as I thought it might be. I’m feeling daring. I want to keep pushing myself.

The dark figure hasn’t shown himself for a while. His long lanky limbs and blurred face don’t hover behind me as they used to. He doesn’t sit quietly in my bedroom waiting for me to wake. And I think I may even be missing him.

I can feel the pull back to the city and I’m sure I’ll be commuting again, and life will speed up as it always does. But for now, I want to enjoy the changing colours of the leaves and the warm afternoon sun before autumn gives way to the cold and damp of winter.

New beginnings in autumn

So, I’ve moved to a new city and abandoned the life of trains and pre-dawn starts. It’s amazing.

My studies are incredible. I’m surrounded  by old stone walls and creaking wooden staircases. Huge lecture theatres fill with hundreds of students. And it’s autumn, my favourite time of year. The leaves are burning orange and brown. They fall in flurries over the cobbled roads and narrow streets. 

I can’t quite believe how different my life is now. I refused to consider returning to study before. Let alone start over in a new city. But I’m here, and I feel alive. 

– Saffron

Pulsing metropolis

So my time in the city has come to an end. An abrupt stop after a regular week of fast pace racing as normal.

But I can’t wait to come back. I can’t wait to find myself back in the pulsing metropolis. The city that never sleeps. Never stops. 

I want to wake up on a cold February morning, throw on my coat and run for my bus. I want to do it properly next time. Just as long as I’m running for a bus next time, and not from a dark figure. 

– Saffron

18:54

Remember that lovely looking man I see on my commute everyday? Same station, same carriage, same time?

I spotted him on my way home, waiting at the station. Picture this…

The train is delayed, and the snow storm is getting heavier. Im freezing. But it’s Friday, and I’m glad to be going home, I’ve been looking forward to the weekend since Monday. He looks impatient, but I catch him notice me as he always does. His face relaxes. He looks gorgeous today.
The journey is long and boring. The train is too bright inside and the hills that roll past outside are blanketed in darkness. I wish I could see the city morph into countryside. Watch the cement and brick crumble and melt into rivers and fields. I sit opposite him, but I’m too shy to look up. Instead, I steal glances when he’s looking away. My book is dull, and I’m distracted anyway. I cross and uncross my legs. 

The train gradually clears, eventually leaving only a few people in the carriage. Our gazes lock for a split second, before I blink and glance away. But something in me stirs. I have a boyfriend, and his family adore me, my family adores him, we’re stable and serious. But this man on this train is far more interesting and far more exciting than Xavier. 

He’s strong, he’s good looking, he reads, and he commutes. From 0-90, I switch my phone off, look up and ask him, What’s the time? I know the time, I’ve just checked it on my phone. It’s 1854.

He looks up, startled, and instinctively looks at his watch. Almost seven o’clock he says. I smile and say thank you, what else can I possible say now? He’s answered my question, so that’s it. He hesitates, Doesn’t your phone have the time? I look up, and smile at him, Yes it does.

– Saffron

Somewhere between the sunlight and the chasing river I lose my soul

Sometimes I feel smug that I have such a stunning journey into the city.

Getting the train at 7am has its perks. In the winter, the fields are glittered with frost. As the sun rises, the orange leaves on the turning trees glow, casting shadows on the soft hills. The river chases along the train tracks, cutting through hedges and fences. Steam gently rises, as the cold air hits the water.

I get lost in all of this. Somewhere between the sunlight and the chasing river I lose my soul. It breathes the bitter air and dives off that train.

– Saffron

Can you keep up?

Lately I feel like everything is spinning forward faster than my body or my mind can keep up. Whisked on trains across rolling hills and stacked grey cement, everything is steadily more complex.

Does that make sense?

I’m tired beyond my limits, so it might not. 
I’ll try again later.

– Saffron

Work

I don’t usually write about work, out of fear that someone in the office might recognise my blog posts and my identity would be compromised.

But fuck it, I really fancy writing about it.

It’s my first office job- other  than the shitty temp jobs I took as a student. And I seem to have leapt straight off the ground and into this role with the enthusiasm and passion that is definitely missing at home. Every morning I dress and make my face up and suddenly I am a city suit, rather than a struggling millenial with abandonment issues. 

Generally, management is awful. Communication, responsibility, nothing. But the job itself is good, it’s teaching me a great deal of skills that will be invaluable where ever I go next. And despite the poor office management, I’m pushing through it and seem to be emerging at the otherside stronger, so far.

– Saffron

Missing home-home

I say I’m missing home-home when I’m missing back-home/motherland/desi. I am longing for the heat, swathes of fabric, the attitude. Something is missing from my life here in England.

Today my Mother hit me with another hard blow. After confiding in her that I wish she would protect us from feeling hurt, she mocked me, humiliated me and sliced with the same contempt she holds for my father. It hurt. A lot. 

And so after feeling the cold slap of her angry words against my face, now I am longing for the warmth of home-home.

Most mornings, part way through my two hour and three train journey, I walk down an incredibly metropolitan street. The sun might be shining through the trees or the grey sky might be closing in. But either way, the dusty image of yellow roads and dirty streets always slips into my mind. And for three minutes or so, I feel as if I am there. Sandles dragging in the dust, the sun beating on my neck.

But I am here. And I quickly snap back to reality. Back to the metropolitan street and back to the harsh smack of my Mother’s contempt for me.

Beginnings

When I was around eight, my Aunt took my sister and I with our cousins to my parents’ first home. On the way to the cinema we stopped by the run down little house, my aunt pushing her youngest in his bright red pushchair.

Tucked away behind markets and busy street vendors, I remember thinking the red brick house didn’t seem a particularly likely home for the parents I knew. It was sad and small. A piece of their beginnings that had been hidden from my sister and I.

Our cousins tousled in the sun, oblivious to the landmark moment that was unfolding. The house struck something in me. I was eight years old, and I already understood that my parents were disguising their sad past.

But I suppose my Aunt wanted us to see where we came from. Our parents had struggled for a long time, and this was the beginning of their story. And strangely I keep finding myself being drawn back to these streets and busy markets near that sad house in the City. Because as sad as my parents’ story is, it is a part of me. We can’t escape our past and we certainly can’t deny our beginnings.

– Saffron