Tonight, after an explosive, amplified, mood filled weekend (all around)... I have been thinking about my little attic bedroom. The one with the half semi circle windows either end, at Wychwood Cottage.

The walls lilac pink, the desk lined with pots of pens and tiny boxes of things. A whole room just for me. Where secrets lined the carpet and notebook pages were collaged with words and photos and stars and cuttings.

And looking out the window I could see fields of corn or hills in the distance. My fluffy cat would miaow at the window to be let in before dark.

The metal latch on the wooden door laden with trinkets and old ballet slippers. The moments shared with friends snuggled up watching films on my bed or on the phone chatting for three hours. Tilly~rose hamster sitting in a tea cup. The faux ballet skirts, the white tights, the blue tights, the ribbons.

The playing and the giggling and the sulking and the sobbing and the heartbreak.

But mostly the moments sat at my desk. Or cross legged on my bed listening to music on cds- playlists or a former boyfriend's band or my favourite artist at the time.

But mostly... mostly the contentness, the ease, the nostalgia of that room as a whole. And how mostly I think of that room as a safe place of contentment. And how much I wish I could transport back to that time for a while. Just to feel content again, and to feel soft and still and ease and comfort and safe.