Author S. K. Nicholas

We’re nearly at the church that overlooks this town of ours. From way up top, you can see for miles. All those distant lights. Those other towns and cities, they spread out in all directions. So many souls just like us. So many stories. Some just beginning, and some near their end. Every once in a while, we take the time to think about those who share a similar plight. Maybe, just maybe, they do the same, and across this great divide, we are all connected and at one, and this struggle won’t have to be endured alone. At night, this night, the stars shine and flicker the same as the matches we use to light our cigarettes. There’s music coming from your earphones. Something by Tom Waits. That song about a waltzing Matilda. The one he sings from the bottom of his whisky guts. It’s barely audible, but it gives us a soundtrack, and as we pass unlit homes and empty parking lots, it seems that life is both infinitely beautiful and sad all at once. Moving towards the cemetery that acts as the halfway point between the town centre behind us and your place up ahead, the graves that watch our approach contain bones that were once the same as us. Alive. Intoxicated, and fearful of the future. Creatures of love, and creatures of cruelty. They were here, but now they’re not, and even though their headstones act as markers, as proof of their former selves, isn’t it so strange to think of them as being real, and not just as some illusion. As some vague, drunken idea that will be gone upon waking the morning after, the way those ideas often are. One day we shall join them. One day, there will be no separating us from that which for now remains unseen, and we too will become abstract. It’s kinda romantic in its way. Kinda lovely to think of us at one with the universe and swimming with the ghosts of everyone that’s ever lived. For the time being though, for the time we have left, we smoke our cigarettes while trudging through blades of grass that reach up to our knees thinking of how nice it will be to get inside and undress each other. Then to spend the next few days kissing and talking while wrapped in our duvet as the rain pisses down outside the window and the streets drown like how those rats did on the Titanic. Those poor, poor rats. If there is something after we die, I shall take you by the hand, and together we shall seek them out. We shall play with them and make them feel loved the way they never were in life.

A Journal for Damned Lovers Volumes 1 & 2 on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers Volumes 1 & 2 on Amazon.com