clinging to the wreckage

Saturday morning and the rain is falling as I sit inside with a coffee and stare out of the window. It’s peaceful, wet and green. It’s beautiful. It’s the weekend that you are back from holiday. We haven’t spoken since that Friday I left for Vigo and we messaged for a few minutes until I lost signal and, just like that, you were gone. Three weeks have passed and the strength and certainty I felt that day have attenuated because I don’t know if your holiday will have caused you to forget me or reject me or hate me. Perhaps you will come back with a strengthened resolve to shut me out and focus on what you have. Alternatively, your interest may have grown and you may come back eager to speak to me. I am excited and terrified. I am happy to know that I will get the chance to communicate with you on some level but I am afraid that it may spell the end when you read the letter I left in your drawer and then see an email from me too. Regardless of the outcome, I need to know. I need...

I lie in the dark… well, it is a dim candlelight… and I think of dying. I feel a longing for death… because I see no point in the rest.... why do we go on and go on and grow old and waste away? We struggle on alone and everyone is fighting their own battle in their own space. It’s no crime to go. It’s no crime to make some space. All the drinks in the world can’t make this a happy place and all of the drinks in the world can’t bring you closer. One moment two people are sharing a salad and a fork… the next minute they are in different countries and the memory is starting to fade. And we just move on and move on like we are going through chocolate bars or bottles of beer… some disposable commodity. We are disposable commodities. And tonight I am bleeding. Both physically and metaphorically. I’m falling apart. I suppose I can’t expect anything else considering the last few months. Perhaps one could argue that the last few years have been extreme and that I have take...

It only seems like a few minutes ago that the cleaner arrived and found me passed out on the floor. She woke me and was so beautiful that I was confused and wondered who she was. ‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘ Yo no hablo Inglés’ she replied. ‘Who are you?’ ‘limpiador’ She looked around the apartment in disbelief… it was like a real life scene from one of the ‘Hangover’ films. I saw her looking in horror at the clothes piled on the floor that I had kicked off only a few hours before. I tried to explain that I was dying and that Madrid was to blame but she had no sympathy. With a series of hand gestures I convinced her to come back in thirty minutes. I threw up in the shower and went to work.