I’m not a bohemian

Since moving to Melbourne, I’ve realised something that came to me as a bit of a shock.

I am, in fact, not bohemian.


I tried it. I moved to a one bedroom flat, shared a room with my son, purchased a few notebooks and decided to spend all my spare time writing a book.

But the reality hit me like a ton of bricks. I like nice things, I like my own bed, I really like sleep.

So as I cleared our sub-letted flat of mould and hung all my nice clothes up to dry crinkle free in this so called spare time I realised, I want a nice house, I want to watch the news at 6PM, I want to wear a god damn puffer vest.

For the first time in my life, I don’t want to stand out. I just want to be happy, I just want to be me- and these days I think I am pretty much a subject of my society, this so-called normal.

A far cry from 16 year old me with my blue hair and my slipknot t-shirt.

I’ll still write when I can, but It won’t quite fit the image I had of myself: sitting on a balcony in Fitzroy, cigarette in one hand, pen in the other and David Bowie in the background.

But I’m okay with that, because you know what? I’m happy.

I’m really truly happy, for the first time in a long time.