The thoughts that cracked their way through the confined shells of restrain.

There is a taciturn ache pulsating through my bones. It could be because of all the walking I did today. But I think it's the cold. The kind that has crawled into my bones and made itself comfortable. I don't mind it much, this ache. It's a tantalizing reminder of the city I walked through today. My new home. The morning was spent discovering hidden alleyways. The ones which wind through beautiful structures that are in a habit of taking my breath away.

I am sitting in an octagon room of a hotel lobby. And when I place my head back and squint in the right direction, I can see my distorted reflection smiling back at me from the ceiling. There are mirrors everywhere, adding depth to a room I can't stop admiring. Slouched comfortably into an antique armchair, I reek of contentment.

There is a grand piano sitting royally in the middle of the room, something that the other guests have to walk around if they wish to get to the Darwin room. I am tempted to sit on the piano bench, lift the case protecting the beautiful keys and play Fur Elise before I forget how to.

Fur Elise. The most beautiful three minutes of my life are entwined in those three minutes. And everything else pales in comparison. Just the thought of its magnificently powerful tune which uses no words but speaks volumes makes me sigh. Do you sense longing in its beauty? A peculiar yearning that is going unheard. The haunting voice of the broken heart. A lover who won't budge, who refuses to understand. Someone who seems unmoved by the desire, the truth, the love. Oh how can anyone deny something this transparent? Oh how could she turn him down? Elise, if only you believed. If only.

My beloved Charlotte Bronte character comes to mind tonight. Because I am not afraid of solitude. It is my first home. It's a place where I am not dependent on anyone. I find myself reflecting most of Jane Eyre's many thoughtful musing in these regal surroundings. I am not afraid of you. I simply do not wish to speak of such nonsense. And when I find myself out of my depth while talking to you I shall not hesitate to state as much. And you might talk insolence to see me blush, but you should know that I am not easily unhinged.

There is music resounding through the room. I would have preferred it to be silent. But an invisible orchestra insists on keeping me company. Right in front of me, across the piano, through the ajar wooden doors and into the bar, sits a man with a drink in his hand. His armchair is facing away and all I can see of him is his hand on the armrest holding a glass. He hasn't moved it much. Maybe he is deep in thought, causing the drink to be forgotten. His fingers around the glass are tapping to the music. Maybe the harmony is helping him think. And so I no longer wish for silence.

If I walk up to the window to my far right I will be welcomed by the glorious view of Parker's Piece, the grounds on which Queen Victoria chose to celebrate her coronation. There is a painting of the coronation feast mounted at the hotel entrance. It's a huge canvas of once bright colors. It gets you to think of things you never thought you would think of.

The fireplace is behind me. Carefully cut wood is stacked neatly all around it. Tonight though, it's the heaters doing the job. I took a walk along the main street after dinner. It was biting cold and slightly wet. I felt like Sherlock in my long coat. And then I wondered of Sherlock and how it must feel to take one look at a person and know almost everything about them. I wondered if he knew of the joy in discovering someone over a hot cup of coffee. Of asking rather than deducing. Of listening rather than concluding. I wonder if he knew what he was missing out on. But I am not too hopeful.

I wish to take my shoes off and place my exhausted feet on the table. But Sir Isaac Newton might disapprove. That's the thing about portraits. Regardless of where you look at them from, you know they are looking right back at you.

It's late and I am sleepy. It's been a long, tiring day of university rounds, cobbled streets and delightful bookstores. The name of my University is Anglia Ruskin. The course is Publishing. The city is Cambridge. And the swaying shadows cast by the grand chandelier are not helping my will to stay awake.

To new beginnings. And shivery winters.