As you might have noticed it has been pretty quiet on the blog lately. The past couple of months I have been struggling to find the energy, inspiration and motivation to do the things that normally gives me energy and make me feel happy. I haven’t felt like blogging, even when I had things to blog about and although I have been working a little bit on two new writing projects I haven’t been consistent with it.
The trains rumble past on the bridge above with a sound like thunder, turns into a magnified rattling in the tunnel that hides the glass-roofed market below. There, underneath the high arches of the bridge lies Borough Market with its delicate and ornamented iron structure, painted in emeral green and butter yellow, making you think most of all of a colourful greenhouse.
There is a smell of fresh fish, from the prawns and oysters and salmon that lie there with their staring eyes on a bed of ice; of olive oil, freshly baked bread and garlic-like truffles. Of ripened, red apples and tomatoes. And from time to time, still that same thundering rattle above when the trains rush past, reminding you that you are still in the city, even if in that moment it seems far away.
Footsteps on cracked pavements, echoing between Georgian terrace houses on half empty streets. Under a harsh burning sun in a heatwave in October, when the leaves are falling yellow, orange rust and cinnober red from the London Plane trees onto the broken tiles. Or beneath the orange-yellow glow of a black streetlamp in misty rain at night, shining down on the black tarmac, making it shine.
The surprise of turning a corner and suddenly looking down a quiet row of 2-storey mews decorated with wild plants and doors in orange and forest green. Of turning yet another corner and discovering an unknown square for the very first time, like a secret that belongs just to you. Or the pleasure of a moment where you find yourself lost, that split second of uncertainty, and then the decided resolution that it does not matter. The happiness there is in that.