I'm moving & starting again.

Dear everybody who ever read my blog when it was called 'Deerlings & Ghostthings’, ‘Coeur fantome’, ‘Girls raised by wolves’ or ‘Flora Obscura’.

Remember when I used to love blogging and I wrote you tiny stories that were mostly things that I couldn’t say out loud? Remember? Remember? No really, I think you should. Please do. I took photographs that didn’t focus on glittery shoes and free fashion blogger clothes once too. I know you remember that because they weren’t very good. None of it was. But I loved doing it, and I think you could tell.

Most people who started following me on bloglovin’ (and probably google friend connect, too) started following me when that was the kind of blog I had, before I ruined it. Well look now, I’m moving this back over to another place, a happy place, full of old things and new things and if you miss the blog that you once followed, then please continue reading or at least give me a chance to fix what I did wrong. Thankyou & goodnight.

This blog is mooooving. From Floraobscura.com to KittyKatarina.com
If you follow on Bloglovin’ then everything will automatically be switched over. If you follow on GFC, please consider Bloglovin’ or some other reader since Google reader will dissapparate soon and that means I will too.

The wind doesn't blow anymore. The wind doesn't blow and the trees can't breathe. And the heat will turn them into ash as the sun rises and falls, setting fire to the clouds that circle our heads and scramble our thoughts, dulling the senses, blurring the days into each other as we sit on our back steps, on our grass, on our walls, on our pavements, cross-legged, knees and ankles pricked with grit and dust and ash from the sky. Everything bleached with light, everything neon, everything harsh. These days are long, they end at 11 and start again by 3. Blues through the window getting bluer by the hour, trailing the ocean into the night, headlights and searchlights and nightlights. Heartbeat in my hand. Static in my throat. The night air is never still, will never be still, it is more alive than you or I, it pulses, it cackles it screeches like cats. In summer it sings to you from car radios and house parties, 5am, no varnish, no lies, taking off it's make-up and it's eyelashes to show you the other side of night. The tired side, the raw side, running with the wolves at dawn. Ear to the ground, listen for the sounds of the sun underneath trying to break through from where it was buried. Listen for the sound of Ophelia in the water, as we dive out of our windows and drown in bluest sky, reflections of each other, while the stars just sigh.

I remember when everything was a bowl of cherries. When everything was honey-this and glitter-that, and sugar sweet saccharine peachy-keen words dripped through sentences making a pretty mess everywhere, sliding around the curves of an S, collecting like a rockpool in the hole of an O. The pavements melted in the Summer heat, lemonade was served, magic was something that would fill your lungs with each breath, circle your spine, run through your veins, and in your fingertips electricity would pulse like tiny heartbeats.

And I remember how the glow faded and on everyone's bitten bubblegum lips the same words lived, and I realised that we were all just photocopies in greyscale of something saturated with the brightest of the rainbow colours that we would forever imitate and never be. And why would we want to, and how can we change?

And so I cleared up the glitter and the honey and the stars and trees and dreams. I replaced it with cold hard concrete and ash and the feeling you get when you take off your badge of honour that you were awarded for sadness, and oh how pretty that sadness was but it's time to leave it behind. Now I think that all of your stars, all of that light and the lanterns and the glowing glowing glorious glowing is too bright, it burns, it stings. It is harsh and artificial, I prefer the daylight, the natural light and the shadows that come with it, the shades the shapes the colours the lines. I prefer the natural darkness, all that lies in between the two. I am tired of finding the loveliness in all things lovely.

The rotten, the dusty, the broken, the ruins, the cracking and coughing and banality of everyday existence, this is where I will find the beauty. It is honest and raw. It has good and bad permeating every atom of it's delapidated being. The days will rust and crumble into night, and I will feel it in my bones, it will consume me, with every facet of it's tattered charms.

Darker nights spill ink across the sky and through gaps in the fences in the backyards of our houses. Darker nights spill ink that flows through the windows and blooms like flowers over all of the walls before falling like dying petals through the cracks in the floorboards to tell the basement a story about the summer that we lost and the winter that will come. Darker and darker still.

Everyday starts with mist now, which then evolves into gloom which tiptoes around the edges of darkness for a while until falling from the flat side of the earth into night. These are strange days indeed.