After travelling the world from the good old Aussie outback to the mystic Middle East.
From the Elephants of Asia to the culture of Europe, from the rainy shores of England to the bright lights of the States.
I’ve heard stories sewn from many tongues and I’ve met crowds of eyes that have seen battle. My emotions being tugged from deep inside the pit of my gut, and my ears intently listening as to allow the sound proof room inside my heart to conceal the information, that’s being shared with me through fleeting moments of time.
Wartime stories, love journals, PTSD memories, family tree's, drug addicts, travelling saga's, childhood abuse stories, party fun, loss of a loved one, holidays memoire's, rape victims, growing pains, these journals of life and tales of hardship have given me such inspiration to move through life in this moment, look forward to what’s around the next bend and sell my past off, through words that are humbled by experience.
There are times we all like the idea of renting out our lives for a cheap price, our dreams unravelling where our mind is hovering. So it’s when we are met with such rawness, so fresh you can smell it in the air, we come to an understanding that nothing in this life is really ours and maybe our life is for rent, and we are just tenants placed inside the walls of our skin.
There’s something that allows this space of ease, a place of calm, but then again, it’s the space inside the sound proof room of my little pink heart…
"Life for rent means that my life really isn't my own, I only rented it for a while, but if I don't manage to buy it, to own it, then nothing of what I think is mine is really mine..."