Ottillie took bus rides just so she could watch the world go by.
Ottillie was a photographer; she took polaroid photos and was saving for a DSLR. She saw the world through frames,
from different angles, with varying degrees of depth of focus.
Ottillie wore string bracelettes made by friends from Japan, bracelettes made of rainbow beads and plastic shells by her nephew, a silver chain that belonged to her brother, a silver bangle her boyfriend gave her and a watch she
stole from her best friend’s brother, all on her wrist. Everyday, always.
Ottillie had a black satchel adorned with badges and patches, from places she’d been and places she wished to go. She
carried that stachel everywhere. It held her note books, novels and pens – she would never let that stachel out of her
sight.
Ottillie listened to Nina Simone, and Clare Bowditch, and Angus And Julia Stone, and Eric Clapton.
Ottillie liked to think she was a free spirit, but, honestly, she knew she was not; in this world, no one is free of the traps
that are surrounding us. But, at least she knew. A trap for the mind yes, is torture. But to be in a trap and be oblivious to
this? Well, the unexamined life is not worth living.
Ottillie had shaggy short brown hair and never left home without a smudging of black or bronze around her dark eyes.
Ottillie: her mind was a series of Russian Babushka dolls. Inside and inside and inside of each other. One may think they
have found that last tiny doll, but always there was one more waiting to be uncovered.
Ottillie was a poet. She wrote quotes and lyrics on the backs of her hands, and in the backs of books she borrowed from
friends.
Ottillie was crippled by her own shyness despite her longing to be able to talk to those pretty strangers she met along her
travels.
Ottillie believed in fairy tales. She longed to meet Peter Pan or Alice from Wonderland – such beautiful kindred spirits.
Ottillie surrounded herself with memories – pearls from Vietnam, postcards from Europe – and with memories she was yet to
obtain: coins from across the globe, photos of India, maps of the world, books upon books about far away lands… she filled herself
with the stories of places she could only imagine.
LoveKite, albeit a stage name, was so different to Ottillie, and yet they shared something so special, they were closer than one
could ever imagine.
LoveKite was confident, a smile on her face, always adorned with bright red lipstick.
The sun shone on LoveKite, while Ottillie was surrounded by a grey sky, patches of rough cloud, the pattern, the texture
Ottillie lived for.
LoveKite was sparkly. She wore high heels and tight dresses and eluded the same sex appeal her muse did: Marilyn Monroe.
LoveKite listened to electronic dance music, crazy music that she could dance to without a care. CSS, Daft Punk, some days even Michael
Jackson or Britney Spears. LoveKite spent many a weekend at a music festival, letting loose.
LoveKite was perfectly content with herself, happy in a way that Ottillie was not, and never could be.
LoveKite lived in the moment, she made things happen, while Ottillie stood back, an observer.
LoveKite followed the Dalai Lama’s rules, she approached love and cooking with reckless abandon.
She approached life
with reckless abandon.