On Beginnings

Pinch yourself. Go on - make it a good, firm pinch. The upper arm is good - you'll really feel that.

So then, when did the feeling begin? The fingers starting to squeeze, perhaps. Or was when you read the instruction, or when you switched on your computer? Or perhaps even before that - when you were looking for some answers, when you found yourself in a situation the same as one before, and one before that again. And you ask yourself when it all began. Back and back, back and back.

Are you driving yourself crazy yet?

I might tell you my story one day. I might tell you about my birth, my childhood, my love life. But what use are beginnings when all they bring are more questions. Questions and explanations; guesses at best. What we remember is coloured by the present moment. Is it true?

He came back. But that was not the end.

The frost is on the grasses, making them large and patterned. The leaves, fallen from the tree in Autumn, are edged in white, every vein visible. As the sun rises to its low horizon, the colours return and the detail is lost. Instead, the houses look violet against a lemon sky and the air warms.

Let Me Start In The Middle

I lost my love. How is it possible to lose love? Did it go with the tide or a gust of wind? Did I hide it somewhere so dark and tightly closed it would be impossible ever to find yet ever present, like a phantom?

Somewhere in the middle of my tale (that is: the middle as it stands now, for there may be no ending) I became a desert-dweller, a nomad, utterly lost. Of one thing I am certain: it is far better to wander or, indeed, to be wandered, than to feel in irons with a changeling lover.

I decided to become mad. Mad, wandering - and free. Sometimes drunk, rarely at home, taking in films and shows, mountains, rivers and the sea. It's a wild energy, frantic. In it, the pain dilutes and recedes and there are moments of ecstasy.

And then the peace comes, and you return home.