The early hours. The late hours. Whatever you want to call them. They remind me of the first phases of love. They speak to me of mystery, of celestial bodies swimming around bonfires on cold November evenings. The mist that escapes our mouths. The warmth of linked fingers to the tune of Pink Floyd. Fairground lullabies and intoxicated minds ready for the journey to warm bedsheets so potent with the scent of your perfume. It’s all about those lonely years you spend finding yourself. Those breakdowns where the only thing you can do is reach for the bottle and hope that tomorrow offers the answers you so desperately seek. Countless mood swings spent cursing no one because no one else is to blame. Reading Bukowski in the bath. Masturbating to the lights of your eyes while everything is steeped in darkness. The cold feel of concrete beneath bare feet. The trees as they move in the wind not speaking to anything other than themselves. Mistakes are made. Wrong turns so appealing when dressed in sheep’s clothing. The horrors of realisation, and the numbing comfort that a glass of wine brings to make it all fade out of view. Fantasy to cover stretch marks. An illusion to hide your stained neck and the trademarks so many others have left behind. It’s not your fault, it’s just the way you were made, but those chains are easily broken. Just give yourself to my whims, and the rest will be history. Hiroshima and Omagh. Sutcliffe and Brady. Toss this dog a bone, and let him come home. Cut off these fingers, and sing me a song to make everything fine. Serial killers and writers- monsters one and all. Narcissism so vital, we know only what we want to know, and we take until we get what we want. Sometimes, make it stop. Sometimes, do it again and again until these pleasures leave us blind. The equinox of our hearts, so captivating like blood in the snow that no one else can glimpse except us.
Categories: On Writing