/ who’s waking up to drive you home when you’re drunk and all alone? /
Those are the words that trace my every stroke as I paint a world beyond the sudden temperature drop of a city much more north than I can handle. I dream, in lucid lines, of those waters that kiss the shores of the northern beaches. That aging ferry sails into mind, and I find myself caught in those pretty moments – when I lived in a different time and place.
It was those senseless nights on the light rail, the ocean air that salted on the tongue, and a handful of golden boys who stole my heart with just a glance. It is borderline tragic, this tendency to romanticize the past. Yet, it is the vision of golden lights and summers in January that lend to my drive for another story line. For every block I walk on Queen Street West, I recall a realization that has so shaped the way I remember it all.
Sydney, you loved me in more ways than I’ll ever understand. And for that, I take every step so that it will lead me back to you.