Dearest…

Dearest,

I have decided to move.

Away from the noise, and all those bright lights we’ve all become so dependent on. I’m moving back to a place where I can breathe and slow down once again. You’ll be surprised to discover that it is a rather quaint little shop that never has to close its doors. I suppose, upon consideration, that it could be described more as a library or gallery of sorts, where people come to talk, share stories and ideas. Do you remember how many hours we used to spend in such places? As well as the busy main road, which has in recent years become a constant stream of endless noise and activity, I shall also be leaving behind the somewhat lacklustre artwork and perfect prose written by a code, stolen from the muddled minds of genius long since past. You may be pleased to know that I am once again to be surrounded by mistakes and rubbed out pencil marks, long pauses and coughs littered throughout deeply authentic and hopefully, moving conversation. Here there is no rush to speak, nor any need to get attention by doing a jig. 

Yes, I’m aware that I am going alone. It’s not for everyone I know that. But any company I do receive would be most welcome I assure you. As I write to you my small suitcase sits at the door, filled with possibility. My woollen jacket lying neatly across it, in anticipation. I know you’ll likely think me rash, but I’m going because, in truth it all became too loud. I couldn’t hear myself think anymore. Great books were being ignored and fine paintings had become reduced to a twisted metal bar displayed behind a glass box. It was as if everyone were shouting all the time and I simply couldn't feel anything anymore. So I decided to go back to the place where we once used to spend all our time. 

Dearest I have left a forwarding address and I shall write regularly I promise and let you know how I’m getting on. But if you’d like to visit I would so dearly love it. You should know that the door shall always be left unlocked, and the kettle on, so do just let yourself in. Your favourite chair, (the one with the worn arms and that somewhat wonky back leg) is always available. In this quiet corner I shall sit perfectly content with my own company or yours perhaps, while we both read a faded paperback, or write or paint, with the radio playing some jumbled collection of jazz and Bach. I might lend you the book I discovered at the back of a shelf last week, or play you a song that moved me to tears.

I suppose there is always the possibility I might be lonely here, but I am reminded that I have all this creativity for company. Some of the greatest minds that ever lived reside within these walls. You see I simply don’t want to hurry anymore. I don’t want to always feel that I have to do something in order to sit still.

I want to be inspired again, not influenced. I want to think, not over-analyse. I want to create and not wait for the applause. I feel like you might understand. Earlier, as I watched the train leaving the platform I stood there in silence. The leaves scattered down onto the empty tracks below. Small mice darted across the lines as the faint rattle of the departing train subsided. It all felt so quiet. I began to walk towards my new patch. You might remember, it’s along the backroads, towards that small, ancient door set within a cobbled wall. It’s painted a beautiful plum colour now with the blown glass distorting the interior glow. I had to remember to duck my head as I went in, the indulgent scent of coffee and old books greeted me as the tiny brass bell announced my arrival. 

I forgot that the beamed ceilings were quite so low. A small dog slept snoring on a faded green bed, tucked in next to the fire. My chair is still anchored to it’s corner. A small light set within the bookshelf behind me. On the table next to me sits a small pile of books, worn and loved and a post card from 1952, Italy. A summer never forgotten, by all accounts.

Here I now sit finishing off my letter to you that I began several days ago, my shoes off, feet tucked up beneath me, warm and content. The window opposite looks out across the water, a window to the world I so needed to see.

People come and go. We speak occasionally, but often we simply pass each other and smile, not needing to talk. Time stops here. There are a few modern touches, but mostly the old till rings like it did twenty years ago. The phone is still connected to the wall, and sits perched upon the telephone directory, even after that world has long since gone. But in here nothing is lost. The shelves are packed with both classics and some new discoveries, art work hung precariously close together, a wall of brushstrokes and the smell of oil paint, linseed and turpentine now infused into the timber beams above.

The cushions smell of faded cigars and juniper berries, the carpets bearing the pathway of creatives searching for inspiration. I’ve settled in. My coat hangs on the oak stand, a light rain has begun to beat against the window and I hear the bell at the door. I smile and carry on reading, knowing they'll talk if they want to, but allowing them to find a chair and sit in solitude if they choose.

I look up, and smile.

“Hello”, they say.” Is this yours?”. 

I nod, “It is, but it’s really for anyone who needs it. The kettle’s on, make yourself at home.”

I watch them remove their coat and unpack their things, ahh a writer? Or an artist perhaps? Maybe they just want to look around. I return to my letter, but thankful for the quiet company.

The sign above the door, should you need it reads.

‘The Enduring Creative’ All welcome - Umbrellas may be left here.

Dearest, I think I shall be happy here. Despite what the newspapers might say or how cold or dark it may get. I am surrounded by lifetimes of inspiration to keep me content for eternity. I very much look forward to your visit, but in the meantime you know where to find me.

All my best,

Me