...

The slowly blossoming despair, the silent onset of loneliness in a prickly morning of birdsong and cold sunshine.
Whose life am I dreaming into?
Whose future am I imagining?

Living in fast forward and there's no time for anything. Timelines, speeding up, too much waste and not enough value.

Why is the measure of love loss?

In the dawn, when it's only me and the red wattle bird just outside the balcony, I sip my hot sugarless tea and try and blow reason through my thoughts. This rarely works, and I end up marvelling at how sadness can seep through days as beautiful as these?

The space that should be full is empty, gathering dust and lengthening shadows. I create to fill and embellish but sometimes even the solitary turns on me and I am left in a box of lino and plastic, with meaningless brushstrokes and television.

Static.

I think of snow and winters' dull ache and I don't want to go back there. I wish I could shrug off the past like a cape, and reclaim my body as my own.

Today shall have to be a day of long walks and red-tipped toes in the icy sea. The london lessons unlearnt, I inch back to the safety of the mundane.