A safe space

A bed and shelves that sing my memoirs

Trinkets, a steal of sentimental youth

Book binds and record sleeves

Paint a picture of then

Blanket me in the now

Push me toward the next change

Grounded by a space that honours time

Honours who I was, am, will be

Anxiety paused, a platform to rejuvenate.

“Home” is where the heart is but it’s also where the strength to grow is. It’s revisiting the past and remembering why you left, it’s a heartbeat of clarity in the mess of your hounding thoughts, it’s allowing your stubborn self to be looked after and the rememberance that having people in your life to do so, however limited is one of the greatest gifts. I feel more myself in this moment than I have this whole year. I don’t miss New Zealand at all and that’s okay too. It was a time in my life I’ll learn I was in need of I’m retrospect and just because it was paradise for so many that doesn’t mean it had to be paradise for me too. Being home is not a failure and it’s not permanent it’s another chance, a hug and a push onto the next chapter. I feel more inspired here than I have anywhere else. The grey days show their own kind of love too. 

Love and light, N x


A Promise to 24…


You’ve exhausted yourself poor girl. Unable to create yourself like everyone else, unable to stop craving otherwise. You take your circumstance for granted that’s true but it isn’t you, it’s her and still you fail to make peace between the two of you. Of course you only want the best for yourself, a rich tapestry of life. Late nights with the ones you love, to get lost in grand cities, to feel so utterly insignificant that there is nothing to you but complete freedom. You want the world to ravish you and you’ve succeeded mightily at times but this is the year we try to make it stick. – Journal entry

Twenty Four is my wild year, the year I push and push until the paralysis crumbles under the pressure of my ferocity. Every day I’m taking minute steps toward it. I’m hungry for liberation, I never suited this timid creation, not with all of this abundant aspiration, this urgency for living, this need to seek out the characters in the crowd and befriend them.

“I never really understood New Year. To me, my birthday was always my chance to start over or keep on with the good.” – My work boss.

Wellington reminded me of all the things I love about living. Scattered routine, talking late into the night with exceptional humans, dancing around completely oblivious to reality, shitty places painted pretty in shades of memory. I missed my friends, I missed the adventure I came here for. The past few months haven’t defeated me, I’ve defeated me. But I’ve had some crazy reboot, less to do with a birthday and more to do with getting away for a couple days. I never knew a place could be so claustrophobic.

Light and love, N x



“Go where you feel most alive” You advise? Well, that’s a bar with broken souls housed in sodden bodies. Sticky floors and dense air. Watered down liquor, keen hands on bared skin. Cigarette smoke and clustered curses in packed out courtyards. Young, old, ageless for a night. Heady on the promise of losing our minds. Distorted beats and stuttered memories of a careless night. And it sounds like tales of useless debauchery, immature and reckless. But these are the nights when the voices cease and there is room for being. When our tongues loosen and twine with others. Quick quips, thoughts run, common in the need for companionship, just for tonight we revel in the lunacy.

N x


Moods, Rhythms, Prose…


If you had of told her at eight, all chubby cheeked and wide eyed, that she would trace the lines of that bubblegum pink globe, she was fascinated so much by, in a self renovated van, I wonder what she’d of said? Actually, I wager she’d have been a little more forthcoming than her weary sixteen year old self, listening to playlists that tore at the angst in her heart and left her fragile, curled up on a single bed in a purposefully darkened room. That teenager would have laughed with all of the menace of an aged sinner and turned back to the lyrics where such impossibilities were painted with pretty plausibility. And then again at nineteen when just stepping out of her dorm room terrified her, I bet she would have cried at the impossibility of such bravery.

Yet, there she goes, turning up another dirt track, in a country wherein she can’t speak the native tongue but communicates with smiles and waves, with a grateful nod of recognition toward the locals in the streets. At the end is another broad leap into another vast unknown. The rigid levels of a raging waterfall, the steady opening of a vivid lagoon, the stirring depths of the vast sea. She’ll do it though, take the leap I mean, the threat of it will curdle her stomach for a second but she’ll do what she does so well now and silence the doubt. See, she conquered the demon, that was herself all along, back when that demon was her only companion. They grew to know each other and she learned to love that careful loathing, she accepted the demon’s chiding, it’s haughtiness toward the safety of innocence and instead let it push her to embrace a life void of that expected purpose.

Now, she charters her own explorations, talks to people with shaky confidence but makes friends for life, she tries new things with a perspective that is uniquely her own and laughs at all those who never thought she’d board that first flight. Her soul ebbs and flows, her ambition the most wayward tide and it’s catching. Her smiling tales wrapped in golden imagery, snaps of coves and foreign faces, words etched in a tattered notebook, all memories to conquer her own doubts when they rear their head once more. She lives for herself and the loud mystery of our world and that is the fiercest action of all.

If there was one daydream I could make a reality right this minute it would be this one. Do you have any idea how much van renovations cost though? It’s mental! One day, when I can actually drive (because that might help things just a wee bit, ay?) and have the funds. 

Light, love and wild courage, N x



This is me stuck…again. Giving up on a thing because it isn’t at all how I wish to be perceived. I crave skill, experience and insight that I don’t allow myself to prosper in. My anxiety holds me back, I’m embarrassed to ask for opportunities and ashamed of what little I have to offer anyways. I’m not enough, I’ve tried to force myself into things but I fall every time. I want to be raw, organic, completely at one with me and how I connect with you. People read my blog and it thrills me, honestly it does, especially on the posts were I know I’ve laid myself bare. I don’t yearn for success or notoriety but for connection and acceptance. That’s what my journey has always been.  Online, creatively and here, in my reality. It’s why I runaway, why I try to escape myself by escaping a place because I feel deep in my gut this empty space that persists I’m chasing something despite the constant wall that stunts me with every turn.

And the thing I amp up in my head and put my all into achieving is never quite what I’ve built it up to be once I actually get it. It’s always a dream for a day before becoming an exhausted routine all too quick. Like when I’m in a beach town I’ve idealised living in for months, a couple weeks in and I miss the pace of the city. Then when I’m in the city I crave the alienation and mellow timing of beachside living. But moving all of the time doesn’t give me the chance to establish the roots I think I probably need. Because as much as I yearn for a constant group of friends I just can’t accept one place as my permanent home. Imagining being anywhere for longer than a few months pushes me into this awful pit of despair and it sucks. As much as I’ve embraced my free spirit and my ‘grab life by the tits’ attitude, I want to want the settled life. I want to want a companion and a home and a career that gives me purpose. Because the thought of it all is so warmly imagined in my head but the practice of it makes me feel trapped. It just seems so easy to want what society pushes you to want, maybe there is some sense to it after all.

I’m actually sort of sorry if you read this to be honest, it probably doesn’t make much sense which is frustrating because I’ve been working on honestly displaying this anxiety for years. I’m over it, I’m over myself and it’s a rut I can’t keep motivating myself to get out of. I’m so hopelessly tired of being me and trying to fix it by meddling with my external circumstances. I’m almost twenty four and no matter how much I know I’ve progressed I just want to be at peace, to find my footing and stop worrying over all of these things I quite obviously can’t help.

Light and love (oh the hypocrisy of that), N x

Moods, Rhythms, Prose…

into the wildinto the wild-2into the wild-3

As always the pictures featured in my moodboard are collected over on Pinterest, Tumblr and instagram. I don’t know a lot of the origins but a couple are saved from Izobel over on instagram. I’ve followed her for a long while and adore her feed, honestly there are some stunning pictures and a very unique collection of style, music and reads.

You, a fiesty vessel between bloated suits on streets that crack under the pressure of the men that built them. You’re not weary from the shadows cast by vast pillars that crowd you in but you gnaw at the already broken skin at your fingertips in regards to a more cosmic anxiety. Limitless guitar riffs and lyrics echo in the chasm of dreary life surrounding you, a comfort against the otherwise hallow sirens and cacophony of morbid conversation. Heavy black boots clomp between the shoddy tap of designer stilettos and patter of a “gentleman’s” best brogues. That “gentleman” tosses you a sleazy quirk of withering lips, the stare you know he holds is hidden from view, sunglasses shielding the privilege of that male gaze. You sneer with red painted lips, no haste as you saunter past him.

You’re late for work…again. But the coffee’s will flow regardless, you’re sure. Your lack of enthusiasm already has you on the bosses blacklist anyways. It’s a matter of time before he tells you to “Do one” and you know in your heart of hearts you won’t be mad about it. Your very existence is an expletive in his well routined life. He forgot what youthful hunger was years ago, let that pressing control of an ordinary life seep in. You do well to hold onto your daydreams, reliving that acoustic set in a grotty bar in Camden a few evenings ago. The less than stellar turn out and your muck up on the first chorus smoothed out in your visions of music video’s and sell out arena shows, all on lock somewhere in your dreamers mind for when he tells you you’re useless for the third time. But work exists only in those four walls, when closing arrives you lock the door, with all it’s demeaning shut in behind you, and head into the still festering city streets for a while. Used record stores and the irony of more cafes, like the one you slave in, occupy the hours before “home” time.

‘Home’ is a small closet room, the closest to affordable you can get in this rich mans city. A single bed from childhood, a diy clothing rail and second hand chest of drawers overfill the space. But there’s a lock on the door and a huge window to let in the daylight, and a shabby little corner where your crosley lives, a magazine turned record stand beside it. You’ll plug in your headphones to appease your neighbour Benji and his complacency with the meagre sounds of drunk yells and busy clattering of pots and pans, you zone into the melodies and pick apart poetry well into the night. If the mood strikes you pluck your own riffs and settle your chaos into the scribbles of a song. Patience young thing, your struggle is your soundcheck and your encore is rising.

This mini mix features some of my most favourited artists (The Horrors, Slowdive, The Jesus and Mary Chain) and grazes over the shoegaze genre without being too overwhelming. Pretty sounds, dreamy sounds, resonating sounds. All of the sound play with beautiful lyrics to boot. A lot of the tracks remind me of my later teen years when I was never without my headphones, completely devoted to my record collection and writing god awful lyrics. 

Light and Love, N x

Mount Moments 03…



My dreams have morphed into the terrors again. The sleep paralysis that echoed through childhood, teen hood, adulthood. Like ice on my skin, eyes on me, hands on me, my mind trapped in another plane, aware so much of the phantom beings lingering just beyond my reach. One grabs my throat, another creeps up my body beneath the sheets, in the corner she stands, completely still, but throws unnatural energy at my paralysed body, a child runs up the mattress beside me, whispers in my ear, stirs the hair there. It isn’t new, its familiar. I take comfort in my nightmares. Latch on to the adrenaline of the terrorising. Work the half awake state into dribbles of awful poetry. It’s been happening for nights on end. But I want it to happen, in some sick self torment, I crave being frightened. Crave feeling something. How disturbing is that?


Loneliness has tender fingers, skilled at subduing you, softly, over time. Bit by bit I just feel hollow, aware in moments, but fleeting. Loneliness is me and I’ve resigned to rooting myself in it. It’s like the universe has sentenced me to myself.


Two drinks down and my nerves are submerged in the liquor. My tongue is lose, my wit a dagger, swift and hitting the mark. We play ‘never have I ever’ around the table of a bar. Not a half hour earlier I tripped up over my order, rehearsed efficiently over and over in my head whilst we waited in line, I could feel my eyes doing the deer in a headlight act and my cheeks flamed as I forced myself to make normal eye contact with the cute bartender. Now I am lightning, unashamed of my tame and uncertain self but happy to divulge whatever naughty parts of me I keep well hidden. The mystery is unraveled between sips of ale and laughter with company that I might just be allowing myself to trust. Let’s pretend it won’t make me nauseous to replay the words, clumsily spoken tonight, in the morning.


Mostly, these days, I’m living in moments of contentedness, between wicked snips of anxiousness brutal enough to crumble it all but I won’t let them. Here, I’m in the careful hold of Mother Nature and I feel cared for. The sunshine embracing me, the mountain shielding me, my bare feet on the ocean packed sand grounding me. I’m so grateful to have the homecoming of the tide, regardless of the geographical location. So lucky to have that reminder of vastness, limitlessness, a certainty of all that’s greater than me.

This tiny town may not offer many other distractions but it does provide me steady comfort. Some time to breathe and some time to indulge in a simple life. A life dreamt up by a younger self, longed for so ardently. Here there is time to read and to write and to create. Time to be alone. If only I could teach myself to be alone again. But I will…I am. Slowly during long evenings at the beach with my book and the play of the waves and the plain, too often overlooked, gratitude at having even made it to this point in my life, and more so making it here at all. All alone, by my own means, I made it to this random place I’d never heard of before I set foot in New Zealand. I’m in New Zealand. And my god if I’m not in awe of myself and all I do, all the courage and commitment I throw into living my life on my terms despite that part of me set up for self destruction.

Love, light and wild courage, N x