When your sorrows are partly for yourself but largely for somebody else, somebody you know is in pain, feeling trapped in a repeating cycle of traumatising and frightening sensations, then Wednesday mornings are rather sad.
Knots of stomach bind themselves into words within. Mugged by the sun. Enlightened by the blind. I used to sing.
Bunches of daisy-cutters rain down from above on metal wings. Aimless in the park. Old urge to walk until my shoes and feet fall apart on the road to the road to another road.
Sluice gate memories. Pulled at by a worried past. Make this moment new or fall apart?
Pots of lukewarm water…
There is, in our existence, Spotify
That with distinct pre-eminence
Allows me to re-enter my past
‘For What It’s Worth’ – Buffalo Springfield:
Meant to be for youth and cool folk?
If old gits were meant to stay away
They wouldn’t list obscure early 60s,
And 90s bands.
Thousand Yard Stare.
You’ve never heard of them.
Like I care.
Such renovating virtue.
Gotta love summer for making it impossible to have a lie-in even though you switch off your alarm before falling asleep.
It may have been just as well that I was not writing the blog over the last couple of weeks anyway.
Too many people have contacted me or spoken to me in person about me continuing my blog for me to ignore it any longer.
Readers, thanks for your eyes and comments over the years. This is my last blog. I’ve nothing left I want to share, nothing left I want to say. All reason to write for public consumption faltered this year and has finally expired today. Go read something meaningful. Go read something better. Read literature, read cereal packets. Just read. Writers need readers. I’m not a writer so I’m sorry but I…
Trust now gone.
I am death.
I’m no one.
I just killed myself. Whatever lingers after today is not life, just staggering around with fake expressions on my face.