clinging to the wreckage

She lies beside me, so silent and peaceful. I'm awake, reading, drinking coffee. I need less sleep because I'm a lot older than her. Her skin, pale, soft, firm and her hair beautiful and dark to form a gothic contrast. A magnificent beauty. A powerful intellect. A creative and independent force that will not bend. She holds my heart in her hand and I hope that when she crushes it she does it gently and swiftly. And, amazingly, the day after writing the above, she appeared, a black shadow, lurking in the dark corner, and coldly told me it was over. It seemed that things had finally started to go wonderfully well but, of a sudden, all is lost, love is dead. ‘tis time to move on, alone, once more.

A lonely drop of ink stains a pure blank white page. But pen and paper is no longer the way, merely forgotten pleasures. Thus a troubled finger hovers over a desolate keyboard. Signals, signs, speech and speechlessness are the codes that we must decipher and use in order to interact with others on this planet that we co-inhabit. We have whatsapp, facebook, linkedin, twitter, tumblr, tinder, google plus and a plethora of other social media apps and sites that help us to find ‘friends’ and yet do we communicate and connect on a deep level or are we deeply lost within ourselves and an online world rapidly increasing our ability to discontinue conversation with the click of a mouse button? I have danced at 3am to Irish Punk Rock on the streets of Madrid with an old Spanish man; I have passed out in alleys in London Town; walked along Malibu beach holding hands with a friend I was deeply in love with; walked the streets of Lille bare-footed, drunk, in the middle of the day with