books / life / writing

London. Coffee. Words.

 

IMG_6319Some of the best conversations in life I’ve had with my cousin.

So when he decided to move from Amsterdam to London I was happy for him but extremely sad at the same time. I remember people staring at me because I was crying so hard when his train left the station that final day. One last wave and off he went, about to meet his amazing new life for which he had worked so hard in the past decade. And I was afraid he would be too busy to remember us after awhile.

Write, walk, write
I know how crazy that sounds. Most people don’t forget about their family – certainly not the members they like. But there are times in life when you are absorbing everything happening around you, with you, and before you know it a year has gone by as if it was a month. I wouldn’t have blamed him for it, though, if he had forgotten about us. I truly believe these things happen for a reason. It can help you be more creative, being amongst people who don’t know anything about your history, about your previous insecurities, about that story that defines who you are. It can be liberating to simply live for yourself and not having to worry about others.

Imagine how it would be if we all had a time capsule that we could enter every now and then and would transport us to this wonderful place that was specifically designed for us as individuals. Where would you go? What would you do? For me, it would have to be a place where I could write. Write, go for a walk, have a coffee somewhere, stare at a couple of buildings, write some more, talk to a stranger, have dinner, walk some more. And do it all again the next day. It would have to be a sunny place, where I would do this, inspirational in its own way. Not necessarily a famous place or country, but definitely warm. There would a soft breeze. The salty smell of the sea. Sounds of chatter. Perhaps a man with a guitar.

Coffee
My cousin is a writer too. Not a journalist or anything I’m familiar with: he writes for himself. Stories, sometimes a poem. He owns more books than most people his age. He visits places that inspire people to write. He will send photos of Gladstone’s Library where he spends all day and all night surrounded by books and more of an island in Greece where aspiring writers meet other aspiring writers.

Whenever he visits (my fear turned out to be foolish, of course) our routine somehow always begins with coffee. Most days we will simply talk about our lives, about family, about work. I will ask his opinion on something, he will answer by saying I should do what feels right. Nothing extremely impressive. We don’t visit any ultra cool places, we don’t waist hours trying to figure out how to make the most of a day. We walk. We have coffee. We stare out of windows. We talk. We eat. We walk. They mean the world to me, those moments. They are my time capsule.

With Mou Misou,
G.

P. S. @siciliaantje @monakhaan: Thank you so much for following, really appreciate it!

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instagram @moumisou

photos: Moumisou

Moumisou respects the written word, images and so on - and trusts you to do the same. Yes, there's that Copyright thing.
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