Did you ever notice that the sound of water on the banks changes depending on where you are?
The Northern Sea doesn’t sound like the Mediterranean Sea, the Seine sounds nothing like the Thames.
In a desperate need to escape my room and breathe some fresh air, I went for an evening walk along the South Bank.
With the autumnal breeze making my hair curlier than they are, I strolled along the walkway and attempted to clear my mind from a bunch of unnecessary thoughts.
I then saw it: a lamppost. Nothing special, you would think. That very same lamppost was the same one I took a photo with over a year ago. That very same night something special happened, and nothing was the same.
I walked towards it, remembering the photo, the day, and who I was with on that windy September afternoon.
Then, feeling like in a familiar place, I sat down on one of the steps to the Thames.
The water was low tonight, so I had no fear of the waves infringing on the dirty sand below me.
I took “Travels With Myself and Another” by Martha Gellhorn and I read about Africa, intestinal flu, and harelips.
Water and paper are two strange companions. Work a charm when combined, but cannot stay too close, as the water would destroy the paper. Aren’t some people a little bit like that, too?