Whenever I listen to that song today, I can close my eyes and feel the motion of the car, the wind in my hair and this intense swell of love.
Melbourne is like Sydney’s anarchist sibling. It’s the one who went rogue; the middle child who decided to leave his cookie cutter Aussie family and be everything everyone else his family wasn’t.
I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
You stop taking things so damn personally. After all, it’s not really about you anyway.
Whenever I go to the Blue Mountains, I like to imagine I’m going back in time. From boarding the rickety old tin train at Central station to off-boarding at the center of town, breathing in that cold mountain air.
Slip off your shoes,
and set them by the door.
These are the ‘gateway drug’ books that introduced me to reading and changed the way I saw the world.
I don’t know at what age I stopped being a “winter person”, or maybe I never was. Maybe some people are born with summer in the hearts, and others with winter.
Alas, their story may not involve tangled up dog leashes or mute mermaids saving strange men from shipwrecks…
“I’m indestructible,” he whispers in my ear. “Nothing bad can ever happen to me.”