clinging to the wreckage

When one meets someone and feels an instant attraction, it is impossible not to fall in love. When finding out that this person has the name of a famous author or philosopher this is even more so the case. Imagine meeting a Bukowski or a Fitzgerald, an Orwell or a Salinger, even an Austin or a Bronte. When one also has a fascination with the French, their language, their culture, their behaviour… and this person has a French Author’s name and is as beautiful as the sun rising over a fresh summer field on a calm Saturday morning… then the love and desire felt for this person is feverish and life is a constant flux of emotional turmoil. With one word this person can raise one to the highest of elations whilst, in the same breath, with one withheld word and untimely silence, pitch one headlong into the blackest night of pain and sorrow. On the tips of the fingers does this person control one’s state of mind and from it there is no escape. Tonight, however, I listen to music, th

Violently up and down. Not sure what the morning may bring. And yet your volatility is a part of the unique you. It is what I attribute to the French revolutionary attitude of resistance and passion. Yet it breaks my heart. It shatters my heart. Oh, the highs and the lows that I have felt because of you. And yet I love you… I love you… I love you. I want you. And I take these little risks… these pills with alcohol, then lay my head down as a bit of vomit enters my mouth and my heart beats irregularly. There are one or two things I’m told I should look forward to but they’re all power games and struggles and there is always someone waving the deceitful wand. You’re there with him and I’m here and all is well in your world… everything is taken care of and it all flows into sterile security.

Driving home I looked in the rear-view mirror to witness an old couple sitting silently, grey haired, waiting desperately for the light to change, hoping beyond hope that their partner would magically disappear, wishing that a fantasy lover would appear and sweep them away for a night of passion… or perhaps just wanting someone to listen to them for the first time in years… longing for someone to say something unpredictable and fresh. It made me realise that no matter how much I pine for specific individuals there is no longevity in love, longing and passion. The only true love is that which is unrequited. Your message arrived unexpectedly this morning and warmed my weary soul and heart, and the longing that I feel for you is the closest I will feel to true love ever again. I know that it would not take you long to grow tired of me and my melancholy. My repetitive stories (I tell them to break them down and to try to make sense of behaviours) would drive you to

It’s all pointless. The flirting, the naked torment, the fucking. It’s just endless flesh. Like dead animals convinced they are not dead. Mere ghosts of desperation. Ghosts of pain and horror. And it comes so easy to some whilst the rest are left broken and in pain. And I sit here in this empty house, stripped of all life. Communications fail. Ambitions and hopes fail. Everything fails and yet life goes on. The traffic jams, the commuters, the offices, the politicians… all gridlocked into this misery machine making money and greeding for more. Everyone lost in their own life and not caring about anyone else. Just a constant pursuit of accumulation of unnecessary crap.

Ah, ‘tis good to be back in my own space. To be back in quiet little England and to put pen to paper once more. The travels were fun but exhausting, they were also exercises in loneliness, longing, and despair for all of the sadness and suffering that exists in the world. A powerful city such as Washington, DC, Capital of the most powerful nation on earth, is filled with hungry homeless people.             Madrid, Spain, is similar. Madrid also carries great emotional strife for me, the strife that stems from rejection in love. I tirelessly reach out my hand into the emptiness and feel no reciprocal touch. And now, back in England, in this quiet room, I am the forgotten man, Never the less, it is good to have peace and solitude , pens and paper, keyboards and computers. I am one of the privileged.