clinging to the wreckage

Allowing my bleeding heart’s contents to drip onto you I discover that the pain you feel is not in anyway related to losing me but for those who came before, and the loss of your own crumbling innocence. When we’re safe in bed on a Sunday morning things may seem well but the cold and harsh reality of a Monday morning will bring with it the fresh hell of forced interaction and other forms of despair. In the mean time I long for your smile, your touch and the warmth of your kiss. I hope to tell you about the things that I miss. In the night, so near, you sit so silent and still, working, reading, relaxing and here in this darkened tomb I try to prevent myself from exhuming the corpse of our love.

Insomnia strikes but there is a beauty about this dark, cold Sunday morning. The day stretches out ahead with the promise of solitude. There is no longer longing and loneliness for I am happy alone and my life is full. Involved once again in the musical creative process as well as writing, I feel invigorated. There is travel. There is work. There is an overactive social life. It is becoming increasingly difficult to relate to many people because their lives seem so regimented and restricted. What’s more, they do not seem to mind but almost revel in their routine and convention. However, this is not a bad thing, it allows me to step back, examine my life, and to realise that I am having fun whilst keeping things simple. I started life relatively slowly and I am catching up… but I am not striving to catch up or to do anything in particular, I am merely being myself and through fortune and circumstance I am living a great life. In recent weeks I have felt so happy that it is