Paul told Holly ‘no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.’

But Paul hadn’t lived there that long. Paul didn’t have lurking men and ghosts of dead brothers. Paul didn’t have the wishes that Holly had, for a better life and better people in it. Paul didn’t have years of history in that unfurnished apartment, of failed plans and broken-down hopes.

Maybe running away was exactly what she needed. In the book she disappears, you’re left hoping that she goes off and finds the life she was looking for, the inner peace and satisfaction; but of course, the film ends differently, with a kiss in the rain and her life stays the same. I say let the wild thing run, Paul.

I’ve recently run, or maybe more gently packed up my life put it in a car and drove. But it feels a lot like running, vastly different from the yearly moves I’ve been doing back and forth to Sheffield for the last 3 years of my life. This time it’s untethered. I’m not going for a term, not returning to my comfortable nest of friends and classmates, the easy embrace of uni and lectures and nights out on weekdays. This time I’ve simply, moved. For the first time in my life, I’m unattached to anything. No student loans, no guaranteed trips home, no safety nets, just me. It should be terrifying, moving somewhere completely new with no end date or structure. But it wasn’t? I sunk into my bed at the end of my 3^rd day here and nothing came to mind, I rested easy and that’s when you know it feels like home.

Instead of shakes of fear I’ve found sighs of relief here. I catch myself walking home and just feeling so grateful to live here now, partly because it’s beautiful and exciting, but partly because it’s not Sheffield.

It’s such a privilege to run away. To have waited so long to be able to leave and then to finally have gone and left and found base somewhere else, it’s reviving. I love unknown streets and struggling over directions and wandering recognising absolutely no one. After years of spiky places, pricked with old memories and cordoned off, a fresh canvas is needed. All-new, untouched, unhaunted and ready for me.

I love knowing no one and no one knowing me. I love being able to choose what to tell people about myself, finding myself in light conversation with a stranger and giving them the tiniest slither into my life without fear of mutual friends. If I wanted to adopt a new name and walk with a fresh gait, I could. Each day on my walk to work I play pretend with all the possible people I could be. In my Burberry trench I like to be a lawyer or something high level and SUPER busy, I clutch my coffee and walk a little faster. In my dresses, I walk slower and a little lighter on my toes, I like people to think I’m some kind of creative with no schedule and nowhere to be, but in reality, I’m just making myself late.

If I could I’d go into a photo-booth each morning, capture the character in the poses they choose and be surprised when the pictures all still come out as me.

I love the chance to abandon myself in anonymity. I love that I can do that here, building from nothing, able to choose the parts of myself to bring with me. The rest I left behind, all the bitter upset parts got left in a bag by the door I locked and left. It still there and I ran, moved toward, left it someplace else. And anything here is new, as if there’s a moment of reintroducing yourself to yourself each time you shake the hand of a stranger, knowing every part of you is fresh to them and you can choose the person they meet.

The choice feels strangely light. Rather than the fear of being in a new place having to build a life up from the foundation, it feels so clean and easy. It’s revitalising to know that everything is new again, that the geography reflects inwards somehow leaves old wounds with old places and lets it all clear.

I’ve never really understood it before and I still couldn’t tell you why or how it feels like it works. When you’ve got the soft sensitive soul of a creative, places get painted so easily. Cities become overpopulated with memories and what-ifs, and no longer having to sit and stew in it is incredible. So much half-baked healing seems to have come to completion, so many linger ghosts slipped away when they no longer had a place name to hang onto. I feel safe in the knowledge that this city is mine now, those ghosts never lived here.

I love it already, because I don’t know it and it doesn’t know me. It doesn’t know all the stories of the past, and frankly, it couldn’t care less.

I know one day Manchester will end up just like Sheffield. All its places will gain people and memories, I will start to avoid certain streets and places, the romance of anonymity will fade further and further. But it’s big and strong, so I think I’ve got some time to be a wild thing, run around finding all these different versions of myself, all except the ones I left on the other side of the peaks.  

And when it does start to make me shiver, I’ll likely just move again.

Clinging to people like stones on shorelines of island, the fates crash me into and rip me out of too soon, skin tearing as the departure is forced and cruel. An ode to never knowing if it’s leaving or going, as the word is thrown around too loose for lips like these, Velcro pealing crack as I plead for no doors to be shut behind me, to board no boats no more. Let me stay here with the sirens, with the digging nails and scratching jewellery and ashen blond hair, so soft as it tightens around my neck.

             

Oh, let me stay here and play

in this disillusion that I’ve already reached my destination, the journey is over now in this one touch. Please, I want to sink into settlement with the beautiful devils, dip my toes in deep pools and dream of drowning. Don’t tear me from my lies and make me homesick for houses I should never have had the key for in the first place.

I don’t know where I’m supposed to be trying to get to. What those eyes would look like, what tone of voice says home correctly if they do not sing, if they do not mock. If they do not clamp down on wrists and make me a bed in which I crave to lie, how do I know where I’m supposed to pine for? 

If its not the blood on my fingertips from the grip, am I still allowed to call missing you, being homesick?

I wore this the other weekend. As Manchester celebrated pride in glorious sunshine, I wandered around the packed streets in this dress, grasping the material in one hand like I was descending stairs in a ballgown. Feels like a stupid scene to describe, who did I think I was? Well, I thought I was royalty, I was the shit, I was a goddess. In one of my least practical outfits to date, getting caught on zippers and spilling drinks right through to my skin, I felt great. Something about it; that shade of silver gold that seemed to give me a tan I certainly didn’t have, the silhouette of my waist and hips defined under the flowing metallic, maybe even just the sheer comfort of it, I felt the best I’ve felt in a long time. My tipsy self let the words ‘I feel so beautiful’ roll out of my mouth, unabashed by ego, unafraid of self-criticism.

Part of it was definitely down to the atmosphere. I think it's likely that everyone feels beautiful at pride because that’s exactly the point. Feeling seen and heard and accepted makes people glow. If you haven’t been to a pride; go. It’s a perfect example of what the world could and should be like, with no prejudice or judgement. You see people swan past you in glorious costume, full drag, every colour, and you think nothing but ‘cool’. You make friends in an instant and anywhere. When done right, pride becomes this magical space of total love, without whisperings of insecurity or social cruelty. Everyone holds hands with everyone so I don’t think anyone has a thought towards themselves that isn’t love, it would disrupt the flow, strangers would notice and flock from all around to tell you how beautiful you are and tell you to cut it out.

I love the complete lack of a dress code at pride. There’s an unspoken rule that you were literally whatever makes you feel best from a prom dress to jeans to lingerie and nothing else. For me, that’s this dress, pulling in all my favourite styles. In the gold and simple neckline, I see old school Hollywood glamour, I see starlets. In the sheer material I see the dirtier side of that, I see Burlesque and designers like Vivienne Westwood and McQueen who take pristine things and make them messy and fun and daring. In the makeup, I see the 60s, New York, The Chelsea Hotel and my dream girl Edie. Pulled together it all felt distinctly me, sparkly and too much and showing off but brought down a peg. Doing the most, but not that much. It felt right from the second I tried in on, digging it out of the Topshop sale rack in a day before panic. It was that cliché when you just know you need something when it felts like a glove and feels far more comfortable than one. I didn’t hesitate to purchase it, spent the days prior waiting to wear it.

 I think overall I have about 4 or 5 items that make me feel like that. I feel best in clothes that cultivate a sense of character, making you walk slightly different as you adopt a persona that’s not different just elevated. I like clothes that pull on a certain part of you. My Burberry trench pulls on my unfading wish that I could be toned down. My square toe boots pull on my longing to be a Nancy Sinatra-esque late 60s babe. Some of my burlesque lingerie makes me feel like a film star, about to shoot a dramatic death scene that may not win me an Oscar but will make me an international, immortal sex symbol. These pieces make me feel like magic to the point where sometimes I just slip them on to lounge about my room in on sad days.

I hope it’s a familiar sense. I hope even people who couldn’t care less about fashion have pieces that make them feel so powerfully and distinctly themselves. Because if not, what’s the point? What’s the point of this huge industry we’ve built if it's not to make people feel incredible? Why bother even hanging extra weight on your bones if it's not adding to the experience of your day? I’m trying really hard to hold onto the feeling of the gold dress. I want to remember what it felt like and start refusing to purchase anything that makes me feel any less than stone-cold stunning.

I think fashion has 2 duties...

And I’m starting to realise they go hand in hand, and if fashion isn’t caring enough yet, I can by stopping wasteful purchasing in favour of occasional best-self magic.

So I’ve set a new rule, the gold dress rule. A new standard everything has to meet. And if I won’t walk dirty streets feeling like a princess entering a ball, A La Mia at the end of princess diaries, I won’t be handing over my card. I’m accepting no less than out and proud ‘I feel beautiful’ garments, boring t-shirts need not apply.