A broken heart never quite
heals
A broken heart never quite
forgets
A broken heart never quite
lets go
Lets go of the
soul that broke it
A heartbreaker lives on
in the souls they dismantled
And one that breaks a thousand hearts
never dies
Twist of fate?
Just Life
I haven’t found my voice. I have, however, found more of it.
I don’t often look back at my previous work. Partly because when I do all I see is flaws[1] but also because my views have changed so much. For a variety of reasons[4], my world has opened up in the past couple years.
It’s more than that, though. My eyes haven’t just opened, so has my mouth. I’ve found a voice I never knew I had.
Many people love the summer. It’s heat and relaxation.
I’m not one of them. The heat melts my brain thoroughly. I find myself unable to think, let alone do. Which is all well and good on holiday, but otherwise a pain. And dear god the hayfever from all of these goddamn plants. Cluttering up the place looking pretty and producing lifegiving oxygen…how dare they!
Some people love winter. Crisp cold, and crisper snow.
Wanderings of a currently diffuse consciousness To paraphrase Where Angels Fear1: ‘I don’t get the hype over multitasking - you mean there are people who don’t think about ten things at once?’
My mind is exactly the same. I never stop thinking. About everything and nothing and all in between. And sometimes it feels like I’m thinking about it all at once.
The way I think is naturally reflected in life.
“I opt out of all of the bullshit I never signed up for to begin with.”
Get up.
Go to work.
Go home.
Sleep.
Repeat.
Such a life is one of survival, not living. Maybe some real living is squeezed in around the edges.
A snatch of meaningful human interaction on the occasional evening — here.
A weekend away — there.
A long holiday — once in a while.
Snow reduces even as its drifts piles up. It shaves everything down to white…and black:
Crisp white blanket / Crushing icy shroud
Soothing snow / Freezing snow
Smooth, a blank canvas / Featureless, a sterile waste
A softening silence / A stillborn silence
Enduring like love despite / Fleeting like life’s gasp
Snow Book (Книга Снега)…
Writing Prompt Inspired By Michail Shneider’s Photographsmedium.com
A simple heart inscribed in midnight black ink on a lover’s skin. An innocuous question heralding a world-shattering answer…
Content warning: self harm This piece has been written for a long time. And it has sat, like a lead weight, in my drafts for what feels like an age. I hope publishing this brings the release it has been promising, whisperlike.
But this (for a few minutes longer) is a symbolic day.
Semifictional pain He warned her. Warned her that he was dangerous. She laughed it off. How could someone so perfect be dangerous? She didn’t realise her foolishness. Of course.
Ignored the rumbling of her gut. Her gut knew the bitter truth in his words. Chewed on that kernel, shouted a warning. Kept shouting, but was overruled. She was blinkered by lust. Of course.
She should have known better. Should have seen what was in front of her.
Days lost to the fire Where am I? What day is it? Why is it?
My annual illness has struck early, this year. As always it strikes hard.
I’ve forgotten quite what it feels like to be well. Hopefully all will be remembered soon…
As usual the main object of this piece is not looking for sympathy. I’m using my inconvenience as a lesson once again.
The lesson this time is you cannot predict the future.
Those are the words of someone who shattered my trust. And yet I still repeat those words like a mantra.
Despite all she took from me, she gave me those words. Those words of power. Perhaps they were even worth all the pain. Perhaps. Because they are so fundamentally true. The only answer, when life sucks, is keep going.
“If you’re going through hell, keep going.” — Winston Churchill
Churchill said it first, of course.