Remember the time you were in love with two women? One you slept and planned a future with while the other was the only one who ever got beneath your skin? With one, you experienced a sense of peace and tranquillity, the other a sense of conflict and rage. It didn’t end well with either, but hey, at least it got you writing again. Remember the one you painted for, and then the one you pretended you hated even though you thought she was an angel? How about the one you treated with indifference only because you didn’t know how to love her in return? The one that made you rage- she was a pretty young thing, and although she could never be trusted, you kept going back to her, and when she broke your heart it made you want her even more. It wasn’t the first time your heart was broken, but each time it’s happened has always been your fault. You see, it’s always the same. You glimpse someone that takes your fancy and then begins the chase. She inspires you to create, only when the chase is over and the initial period of creation comes to a close, what’s left is but a landscape of ghosts. Turmoil is a tasty little dish, and although you claim to wish only for love, if it doesn’t hurt then it just won’t do. There are no solutions or magic formulas. No way of being that will lift you safe from harm because harm is what forces your hand. The storm is where creation brews, and if she doesn’t bring the storm and make it stay, then it just won’t do. But who would ever believe you? You lie and you steal. You waste time as if it were fashionable and feel no shame when faced with all that you’ve lost. The war will never be won, you’ve come to accept that now, because the only thing you can ever do is embrace it. Remember how only the other week you thought of her- how the memory of the taste of her lips drove you to a frenzy? Remember the way those snowflakes fell like feathers and landed upon her pale face? It hurts, doesn’t it? But what hurts is what drives and what drives is what makes you put pen to paper. It used to be paint, just the same as it used to be blondes. There is no destination, no warm applause at the finish line, only the edge. It used to be a club you drank in as a teenager, but now it’s a state of being you realise you were never meant to overcome.


A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com

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