Jack Johnson. ‘Better Together’. There is sunshine on my nose as my fingers waltz across the keyboard. The rain pelts against the window and JJ’s guitar strums in the background. His voice rolls like liquid off his tongue. Visions of ocean spread out in front of me, warm breeze kissing my neck.
We’ve been travelling with backpacks on our backs as we head up the stairs one more time. Unable to leave curfewed Kathmandu yet another afternoon. We retreat to our room. The smoke billows towards the ceiling and we revel in each other’s presence. There is nothing else that exists for us except these moments of smiles, music and being entwined in each other.
That was the last time I listened to Mr. Johnson until this evening. It’s past midnight-thirty. The rain falls steadily outside. I’m wrapped in a woolen sweater and a pashmina from Nepal serves as a blanket across my legs. I’m inbetween reading info and monologues for the V-Day campaign and catching up on emails with friends and family. There is a soft, subtle smile on my lips. Constantly there. Ali has the same one, even though he’s at work. I know this because of the snipits he sends me inbetween doing what he does these nights at work.
Jack and his happy tunes seem appropriate for this evening, if not to remind me of warm and sunny weather that exists elsewhere, but to create the dance steps I’ve felt in my soul since I have arrived. Ali and I have both accomplished something exciting this week. Our futures are bright and our present is the way we want the future to be. Better Together. We have walked and explored hand in hand the main streets, the side avenues, and the veins of the underground day after day since I have arrived in London.
We sleep in. We make breakfast for each other. We read on our own sitting next to each other. We find a place on the map and make our way there sometimes because I want to discover it and sometimes because it’s a place Ali wants to go. And sometimes we find ourselves in places unplanned and the fallen leaves crackle beneath our feet and we look up at the yellows and oranges and reds against a bright blue sky. St. James Park. Buckingham Palace. Sushi (vegetarian for me) on wet grass, legs spread in front of us. Taking pictures beneath Eros’ wings in Picadilly Square.
Art and theatre. Abandoned buildings for sale. Fours stories high. Studios. Bookshops. Dream locations. And we’ll get there. Because we may be inbetween dreams right now, but these are dreams we have created. Better together. Thanks for the musically inspired thoughts Mr. Johnson. And thanks for everything else Mr. Sharp.