I am usually no fan whatsoever of the winter months (wait. coats + scarves. that I can do.), but this is kind of magic. It’s been a whole lifetime since the last snowfall in the land of the long white cloud and, seeing as Liv and I were only just researching airfare the other night (whether that’s return trip or one way has yet to be determined), this may or may not have made me cry. Tear up a little. Make my heart hurt like sore muscles you never knew you had.
Plus, Cuba Street. I saw a girl with a sparrow on her shoulder there once. I have a picture with David Wenham outside Whitcool’s, even though mum laughed when we said we were off star-searching. It’s the place I found my fantail tea towel, where Orlando bought his t-shirt for the premier, where — if you walk long enough — you’ll find bargain style buys in the basement at spacesuit or lose an hour among the shelves at iko-iko.
New Zealand 2012, anyone? I’m going back. I have to.
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I want to believe that you’re at Victoria, that you’re studying Journalism like you’d always planned, but you say nothing about anything too serious on the page. I want to think that the “bartender” under your occupation listing is merely the money that’s getting you through that flat on Cuba Street, money to buy your beloved Jaffa cakes and money to keep those wide windows open to that sweeping view of city and sea. I want to believe that your stride has finally caught up to those long legs of yours and you are becoming the person you’d hoped for yourself. I want to believe and I want to make sure; I want to spend a calm hour kicking you back into the boy I knew before we can be friends again.
a paragraph from a page I wrote a long time ago | 19b Cuba Street, Wellington, NZ