clinging to the wreckage

I once knew a woman who was obsessed with things like men not believing women, men not trusting women, and so on. This woman lived with her husband but they were separated. She was seeing other men but lived with her husband because she didn’t work and had no other form of support. She said she couldn’t work because she had too many health issues… she was always seriously, critically ill. Always messaging to say that she had come close to death, she was in hospital, they didn’t know if she’d pull through. I always wondered how she managed to send such long, detailed messages from her deathbed whilst in a life threatening coma. Even more strange than this was the fact that she somehow would make it out of the hospital during the evenings and go drinking with her friends and would post photos on Facebook of herself holding a glass of wine and laughing in the street as she lifted her skirt to show her underwear. Then, the next day, the poor thing, she was back on her deathbed, ha...

Four or more days off and then the clocks change, the sun disappears, and Monday morning punches us in the face like an angry friend we once turned to for love and understanding. Hope is vanquished and every deadline is beyond urgent. It seems we are stranded in the place where Christ once lost his sandals.  A love letter, written to a lost lover, that was never sent, lies yellowing in the dust upon a dirty floor. You lie down, wondering why certain feelings that should be long since dead never relent. Finally you reach out and send text messages to someone who never responds. Unrequited love and a desire are not reciprocal.