Self esteem is a bore, or so it was once said. Being kind to old ladies makes me feel happy. Smiling at the trivial things, like the way they appreciate you giving them a little of your time. Talking about all those meaningless subjects like the weather, or the way their memory isn’t what it once was. Old people interest me much more than those of my own generation. My own kind are too concerned with how they are perceived by others, and their stories are dull. No imagination. A lack of magic. My Granddad used to tell me ghost stories all day long. He filled my head with the macabre, planted the seeds of horror and curiosity so that I grew up with a vivid taste for creation. To tell riddles, to enjoy the limitless wonders of the mind. It brings me pleasure on a par with being with a lover. Those eyes, the ones that gaze eternally. Her smile slowly spreading until the light of her halo blinds me as she stands in a field of golden corn. Old ladies and their shells, the ghosts of what they once were. They were once youthful and sensual, blossoming like flowers beneath the sun. It’s tragic that they now smell of biscuit tins, that the dance within them has dimmed. But that they danced at all is beautiful. I have danced many times, and many times I’ve fallen. I’m full of many stories, some true and some not so true. Walking the streets at night listening to King Crimson, scenes wondrous and compelling compel me to write. With unseen creatures lurking in the shadows and unknown bodies beyond the walls of countless homes, my mind runs wild with thoughts bizarre and brilliant. Looking up at the moon and blowing out a mouthful of smoke to the dead stars that shimmer in the sky above, everything feels under my control, and the belief that I’ll later write something profound is a certainty. But then inevitably, I return home and all energy fades from my hollow bones. I run myself a bath and feel happy for a while, but it’s not enough. Sinking beneath the surface, it feels like I’m drowning but the warmth of the water makes it feel so comfortable. Momentarily, I’m going back to the womb, to a place where nothing can hurt me. In the darkness of unbecoming, the stories of what could be are infinite. Just the way they should be. Lighting a smoke after returning, I think of what it would feel like to be a father. Technically I am I guess, but not in the way I’d have hoped for. It saddens me and makes me climb into bed where I curl into a quarter circle. Dreams slipping into my head at varying levels of strangeness, I taste wet leaves and burnt wood as the Autumns of yesteryear play out in slow-motion. The embrace of two lovers, the smile that spreads upon her lips spreading to mine. Reaching out and touching her face as everything around us begins to blur, the music of angels plays with abandon. Stolen moments. Days that never escaped. Smiling regardless of the wave of regret that washes over me, I push the clock off the bedside table and turn off the light. Hours passing as I silently move between realms, no trace of me exists save for the occasional sigh as yet another lost memory reveals itself. When my energy finally comes back, I grab a beer and begin to write whilst all around me the world spins on regardless. Old people and love. Ghosts and In Utero. The ability to smile despite a reason for doing so. Upon the tip of my tongue is the beginning of a sentence and the taste of Spring. Flowering and tragic, like crashed planes and weeds in a garden.