clinging to the wreckage

  The recurring theme of recent years (or is it a lifelong recurring theme?) is silence. The silence that comes when one messages a friend or lover from yesteryear and there is no response. There is no response for days, or weeks, or months, or eternity. They are simply gone. Disappeared into a vast vacuum of dark emptiness. And yet, I am happy alone, I am grateful for it. I feel as though I have made some immensely wise decision or found the true key to happiness. And small things fascinate me and bring me joy. For example; in the past, I have purchased second-hand books in which a previous owner has written their name, where they were, and the date in them. I have a copy of De Profundis , by Oscar Wilde, that I bought in England which is signed 1911. As a result, I have started to do the same… I write my name, date, and location inside a book when I buy one. Imagine, 100+ years from now someone finds a book that was marked by me, it may even have the bookmark still inside of it. ...

  The beauty of capturing moments of our lives in some form, whether it be writing, photos, paintings, drawings, or any other means, is astounding. I am currently reading an entry of mine from the 13 th of March 2016, I was visiting my parents at the time and received an email from my university to say that I had successfully completed my master’s degree. I had completely forgotten this, but reading the entry transported me back to that moment… running to tell my mother… her reaction… my father’s reaction. My mother is no longer with us, but it fills me with warmth to recall that I was able to share that moment with her.   Today my dad told me a story about my mother, which he pivoted to from talking about cars and his favourite colour being red… he said that my mum became enraged any time he said his favourite colour was red because, when he first met her, he had been chasing/dating a lady in their social circle who was famous for wearing a long red coat. My mother insisted ...