Hidy-hole

In the underpass, as the sun falls from the sky, I’m the greatest artist the world has ever known. But by the time I emerge into a blizzard of snow, life has passed me by and I’m just another bum looking for love in all the wrong places. It stinks of piss. Can smell it through the smoke of my cigarette. There’s another scent that reminds me of something I can’t put my finger on. It teases me like the lips of a lover. Could be a flower. Could be nostalgia. Despite being in the centre of town, there’s a stillness in the air that reminds me of the beauty of unbecoming when you’re in the grip of a meltdown at two in the morning, drunk and falling apart because you can’t help but let your head rule your heart. Allowing my mind to go blank, the world and everything in it is as beautiful as the dance of a dying star. I don’t notice my walking feet at all. The blisters on them are as unimportant as the blank pages in my diary. I have it with me in my satchel. It should be brimming with secrets, yet the overriding theme is one of absence. The words will come, though. They always do. I just have to figure out a way to tease them from their favourite hidy-hole—a layer of time the world has yet to lance.

X and I: A Novel and A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon UK

X and I: A Novel and A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon US

2 replies »

  1. How we expect so much of our selves, set our sights, way too, high, and end up, not achieving, all those dreams we had when we were younger, and, just, become, the, nobodies that make up the, majority population of this, big ol’, world…

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