It began, like all good stories, on a crisp winter evening. The trees above bare, and the ground below wet, I walked from the train station, up the same road, and along the same path as I always do. The street lamps showered me in an orange glow, and thankfully the skies remained dry. For this, I walked with a spring in my step, although this may be due to my freezing toes eager to get inside, rather than appreciation to the weather gods.
The jingle-jangle from Vampire Weekend kept my feet moving, and each step brought me closer to warmth. But then, I spotted it. The star of this story. A girl. A girl we both know well. A running girl, who, despite covered by a single t-shirt and tight lycra shorts (which looked bloody amazing, by the way), braved the chilly conditions and strode down the steep hill like a deer would, or some other animal with ridiculously long legs.
She didn’t see me, but I saw her. Despite the darkness, I’d know that running style anywhere. The way her entire body shifts from left-to-right on each step, as though she forces every ounce of strength she has into it. Thud - Thud - Thud went her feet, illuminated in bright orange trainers. Closer she came, and closer still.
Stopping in my tracks, I considered shouting or waving my hands, but decided against it, for if I did she may stop and cross the street to give me a sweaty hug. You may think this would be a good thing, and in many ways it would, but considering I haven’t seen her run in such a long time, I thought better of it.
Far better to enjoy a brief glimpse of her firm thighs and tensed calves. Too dark to see, I couldn’t make out her face, but I’m confident the same steely-eyed stare locked on the pavement in front, just as it did during those many school races. Always running towards something just out of reach. Always chasing it down like her life depended on it.
And then, in a flash, she was gone. One second in front of me, aglow in an orange street light of her own. The next, hidden in the shadows.
I hope you had a good run, Miss B. And don’t worry, one day you’ll catch your prey.
The boy you love,
Ausdylan Elvis Ashford x
January 30th
At The Coffee Shop, blushing and pouting
Dear Aus,
You are cruel. I’m glad I didn’t send those pictures. People who hide in bushes and watch young girls run down the street don’t deserve naked or suggestive images.
You know how I hate people watching me run. Jesus, the thought of school, and all those people, and how Mrs Gleeve always made me take part in each school event… I have actual goosebumps thinking about it. I hope you’re proud of yourself. I managed to block that entire period of my life, but oh no, Ausdylan Elvis Ashford has to watch me and write about it, give me damn goosebumps and make me want to throw up. If there’s a prize for most horrible and terrible -let alone, creepy - boyfriend, you’re the hands-down winner!
Yuck. People watching me run. Yuck. Okay, let’s change the subject. Right, new subject coming. Are you ready? Good! Because it’s happening… right… now!
I’ve just started my shift at The Coffee Shop, and so far I haven’t served a single person over the age of sixteen. This, I feel, proves my point from a couple of letters ago, and although I can’t quite remember what that point was, it had something to do with teenagers always coming into The Coffee Shop. So, yeah. There’s that.
Also, earlier today, I read an article about a young guy who reminds me of you. I’m not sure why, because you’re rather different, but at the same time I think you’d make the cutest best-friend couple. I cut the article out, so by the time you read this letter you’ll have already read about Christopher Thompson. But oh well, here’s a summary of your doppelganger(ish).
Christopher Thompson was born in a small American town, in a state I’ve forgotten the name of - maybe one of the Carolina’s. Anyway, Christopher grew up in a simple home, which had no TV or computer, only a large pile of books and an old vinyl record player. Homeschooled by his technophobic father (his mother died when he was a baby), Chris read books all day, learned how to chop wood and care around the house, and every now and again, did a little math (which he did not enjoy).
At the age of thirteen, in a most tragic accident, Christopher’s father died whilst hunting. His father had no real friends. As a whole, they kept themselves to themselves, rarely venturing into the local town. Scared and worried they’d take him from his home and simple world, Chris buried his father without telling anyone, and continued to live his life.
Thirteen-years-old, he took to raising himself. Each day, he read one book after another, cared for the house, and made sure just enough people knew just enough information to ensure they asked few questions.
As he grew from a teenager into a burly man (you should see a picture of this guy. He’s the stereotypical lumberjack that I know you’re imagining right now), Chris read more books than most people devour in a lifetime. Bit-by-bit, he ventured further into society, dipping his toe into civilisation with caution along the way.
He knows so many random facts - I think this is why he reminds me of you - but has so little standard education. The article discusses how he’s considered a bonafide simpleton, yet knows more about this world than any of us could ever dream of. Not only does he have a mind filled with knowledge, but understands nature and how to live as we were born to live.
No technology. No reliance on media. No bullshit. Hunt, gather, read, and repeat. That’s his life.
I can’t wait for you to read this because I know you’ll love it. Get ready to meet your new hero, mister.
The girl you love,
B x
February 5th
On the train, rather tired indeed
Dear B,
You’re right. I loved that article about my brother-from-another-mother, Christopher. As I told you in bed the other night, there’s something perfect about his upbringing. I know we should be grateful about how we’ve evolved into the species we are today, and the potential and wonder that awaits us tomorrow. After all, such growth allows us to cure illness, let average folk see the magic of the world, and provide information in abundance to anyone with a phone.
Yet at the same time… can you imagine the simplicity of such a lifestyle? I’m not sure I’d make a good burly lumberjack, but the idea of waking up each day with nothing but serving the day on my mind sends a warm shiver all over me.
To read, ingesting wisdom slowly instead of forcing it down my throat.
To eat, only what I need, and appreciate it’s real and natural and clean.
To relax, listening to the wind and the rain and the rest of nature.
I know it must be hard, and a life like Christopher lives isn’t to be taken lightly, but can you imagine? At the very least, it’s nice to know there are still people who exist in such a way - and survive and thrive at the same time.
The part that annoyed me the most was how idiots consider him to be one. Compared to what…? How we educate kids these days, or rely on the media spreading information, or how highly you score on a pointless and outdated test? I’d take stupidity any day of the week, so long as it meant I knew how to literally live life.
But I’ll resist the urge to vent, as you heard all this the other night.
Instead I’ll share this rare event with you… sitting down on the train during rush hour, AND, not only that, sitting at a table. Yes, you read it correct, I write this very letter as a sturdy piece of plastic (or is it wood?) rests beneath it. No wobbly knee. No resting my notebook on the seat in front.
It’s table-time, B, and it feels bleeding wonderful.
It’s a shame this journey has to end, but Sowerby Bridge station is mere minutes away. I have you awaiting me, too, borrowing your mother’s car so poor-old-me doesn’t have to walk home in the February cold. I happen to have a sneaky plan up my sleeve as well, and I can let you in on this secret because by the time you read this, you’ll have eaten my homemade veggie burgers.
Oh yes, I’ve only gone and surprised you with you
r favourite meal. It almost makes listening to my venting worthwhile, yes?
The boy you love,
Ausdylan Elvis Ashford x
February 9th
At my desk, procrastinating
Dear Aus,
Your veggie burgers were delicious as always, and the fact you surprised me with them made it all the more lovely. You know how to woo a girl, that’s for sure.
I’m writing this letter right now because I can’t face the designs I have to do. I’ve been working on this new dress for weeks, and I just can’t seem to make it work. Doing this used to be so easy. At uni, each design flowed from me. I’d sit at this desk and sew and stitch, smiling all the while.
These days, each design takes longer. My smile isn’t as bright. I don’t know why because I figured I’d fall more in love with it once I could dedicate more time to it. This is my dream, right? This is what I hope to do with the rest of my life, so why does it all seem so… difficult?
Maybe I’m having a bad day, but these type of evenings occur more-and-more of late. I hate them. Usually when I sit down at this desk, everything melts away; those long days, boring afternoons, and whatever else. Even working at The Shop doesn’t seem the same anymore.
Are we getting old? Is this what it’s like after university? Is this what growing-up does to you?
I know you’re not writing or drawing as much these days. I keep meaning to talk to you about it, but I don’t for some reason. Maybe it’s easier to write. Maybe I’m just being silly, I don’t know.
All I do know is, designing and stitching and everything that comes with it doesn’t feel the same. I still like it. Each month I sell more, so it isn’t that I want to stop. It’s just… I don’t know… different. Why is it different, Aussie?
On a positive note, I made more money in January than I did in December. I did all the number crunching yesterday (yuck) and couldn’t believe my eyes. There was no way I thought I’d beat my pre-Christmas sales, which makes this whole rut all the more difficult to understand.
At this rate I might be able to quit either The Coffee Shop or The Shop soon, and by the end of the year maybe focus all my time on this. I should be loving it, right? Make sense of this for me, Aus. Show me the light like you so often do.
Anyway, I’ll wrap this letter up and get back to my designs, or, should I say, staring at the laptop in disgust. Is this what it’s like being an angsty writer? I don’t know how you do it, mister. I don’t know how you do it.
The girl you love,
B x
February 17th
In The Coffee Shop, watching you work
Dear B,
I’ve started and stopped this letter on a few occasions because I can’t quite figure out what I want to say. What you said about your rut nestled within me because I know exactly what you feel. Other than these letters I write you, I haven’t written a damn thing since last summer.
I don’t know why. I could blame it on work or the fact I don’t have as much time, but this isn’t the reason. I have enough time, in many ways more time now than I had during school. I always found lots of it back then, entire afternoons spent scratching away in my notebook.
The thought of doing that right now… difficult to comprehend.
I’m sorry you’re in a rut as well. I didn’t know, which makes me feel rather bad, because I’m supposed to sense these worries, right? I’ve known you so long that I should know you better than you know yourself. I’m sorry I didn’t see it, but I’m glad you told me.
You’re so talented and wonderful, and maybe I don’t say it enough, but I’m proud of you for everything you’ve achieved. Yourself and Joey have achieved so much over the past year, and although it doesn’t surprise me to hear you sell more-and-more, it brings a huge smile upon my face.
You have more talent than you will ever appreciate, B. It’s no coincidence, and isn’t due to luck that you’re growing and growing.
As for why it doesn’t feel the same anymore, maybe it’s because it isn’t the same. It seems like yesterday we were children, striding into our teenage years with care-free confidence. You handled the jump between teenage-hood to young-adulthood better than me, although it still brought with it a care-free feel and the security blanket of university.
Today, we’re adults. We no longer have that net protecting us, and although we remain at home with our parents, it isn’t the same, is it? We’re adults, but who says we’re ready? What’s so different about today compared to yesterday? I don’t feel any older or better equipped. If anything I feel more hopeless now than I did whilst at school.
Because of all this and more, maybe it isn’t the same, or supposed to feel the same, either. Where we used to write and draw for nothing but love and because we could, we must now consider where it could take us. Will it feed us? Will it help us become reputable members of society capable of owning a house and bringing up a family?
Would you like to know something? I hate it.
For me, writing and drawing has always been about the love of art and the freedom to express. I’m not sure if it’s the same for you, but I sense it is. An escape, maybe, and a chance to free your mind from everything else that flutters around it.
I like my job. I’m not sure I love it, but I certainly don’t hate it, despite what Joey seems to think. But I sense it isn’t a coincidence that my rut began around the same time I took this step into the overwhelming world of reality.
I feel tense within, like I did as a kid before I took my medication. I don’t feel sad, per se. Or upset. Just tense and anxious, although I’m not sure why.
I know this doesn’t offer you any answer or solution, but it’s because I have none to offer. We’re in transition, B, and like all change it takes time to adjust and grow comfortable. All I know is this: You’re talented and wonderful and love to design and devise incredible creations.
Keep doing it and challenging yourself, and your love for it will return. I don’t for a second believe it’s vanished. It’s just hidden behind the bloody obstacles of this adult lifestyle we’ve been thrust into.
I love you, missy, and I’m here for you whenever you need me.
The boy you love,
Ausdylan Elvis Ashford x
February 20th
In The Coffee Shop, not working
Dear Aus,
I think you’re right when you say we’re in transition, because that’s exactly where we all are. A year ago we had the comfort of university to keep us occupied, but what holds us up now other than ourselves - and each other, of course.
It’s strange how we yearn for this freedom throughout our teenage years, but as soon as it arrives we freeze. Real life stage fright, I suppose. We want our moment of fame and the opportunity to shine, but once someone places that trust in us to deliver, we stare into the distance and crumble.
I know you’re right, and that I still love my designing and such. It hasn’t vanished or deserted me, and in time I’ll rediscover it. I did finish that design by the way, and in the end it turned out rather well. I might even go as far to say I like it.
It is frustrating though, this strange rut where nothing seems to quite feel right. Even working here in The Coffee Shop doesn’t feel the same. I used to love quite moments like these where only a few people mull around the room. I’d stare out of the window and watch the people walk by - carrying bags and pointing into windows and sharing conversations I couldn’t decipher.
These days, I find myself slouching and staring at nothing - worrying or wondering or dwelling over something, although I’m not sure what.
I think it’s like you say, we’re transitioning into adulthood where it’s up to us to choose what we do, how we spend our time, and whether we succeed or fail. It’s what we always wanted, but now it’s here it doesn’t seem quite as romantic.
I hate how you emphasise with me too, because if there’s one place I know you love above any other, it’s when you’re lost in your notebook
. But like you say, you haven’t lost your love to write or draw or read, it’s simply standing to one side whilst you battle through the rest of this nonsense - I believe it’s called life, right?
On a positive note, it’s sunny today, and I know how much you love it when the sun shines. I imagine you walk to and from work with a smile on your face, eager to read and lose yourself in some graphic novel. I’m going to suggest we read tonight in bed, because we haven’t done that for a few weeks.
We used to do it every single night, and I refuse to lose who we were to who we are just because we’re growing up or entering a new chapter of our life. I’m still me, and you’re still you, and we’re still us. Nothing changes that, mister.
I love you too, and can’t wait to nestle beside you later this evening.
The girl you love,
B x
February 24th
At my desk with time to kill
Dear B,
You are most certainly right that we cannot lose who we are. Reading in bed with you the other night, and the few nights since, brought a smile to my face I didn’t realise had gone anywhere. In many ways we have more time on our hands these days, because we no longer have university studies to worry about.
Yet we lay in bed and read with each other less. We go to fewer gigs. It’s strange how this adult lifestyle gives us more money, and in some instances, time, yet we waste it on… I don’t know what we waste it on. Are we exhausted and so spend more time sleeping… relaxing… existing…?
If this is getting old, I’m not sure how I feel about it. But you’re right, nothing has changed because I’m still me and you are still you. Best of all, we are still us.
We have to fight, I suppose, and read more, gig more, cling to the young freedom-fighters we’ve spent so long being. It can’t be that hard, surely. It’s not like we have children or a mortgage to worry about yet. I sometimes forget I’m twenty-two and still young. It’s easy to place yourself in the same bucket as everyone else at work. But they’re ten or twenty or thirty years older than me.