I woke up and it was raining. I’m not bothered because the view from the window is different. Today I see rolling fields filled with sheep and lambs, hedgerows, and woodland. I could be in another time, but the telephone wires stretching across the landscape remind me that I’m not.

I’m far away from the music and lights that fill my normal existence. I’m also away from the mind-numbing shit that drunk people bore me with night after night. They have no idea where I am because I’ve deleted all my social media accounts.

That was the other day. 

In a fit of petulance I deleted Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, and with them went the people I’d loved and wanted, and failed to get. But I felt cleansed afterwards and everything seemed much simpler again.

Now I’m in a kitchen, in the middle of the countryside, not far away from the sea. It is wet outside. But nothing could be more pleasurable on a Saturday morning.

A year ago I sat in this same spot, opened my laptop, and wrote a short story. It was about a boy I‘d met in an old bookshop that day. There had been no conversation. The encounter lasted no more than five seconds, but his eyes, that should have been looking at books, looked into mine, and they unlocked something.

That boy, whom I called Samuel, made it the most perfect day. Since then, the creativity inside me has flowed like at no other time.

And now, I’m in this sacred spot again, writing about nothing of interest to anyone, but doing something that makes me happy.