Getting here.

It’s hard, isn’t it? Trying to fit everything together, laying out your unfinished jigsaw, your life’s works, thinking:

“How did I get here?”

You try to put back the pieces, but some won’t fit. Take a hammer to them. The fragments still don’t quite match up, and wait! The colours are all wrong there.

Stop. Take stock. Hunt for clues.

Photos are flat, steam-rolled with the life squashed out of them. They never show you what you want to know, anyway. Can you even trust your memories?

They’re alive, you know.

They wander around inside your skull. They grow and they die. They eat each other, sometimes, which is just confusing if you let it go on for too long.

You can go on for too long if you don’t catch yourself.

The past twists, knots behind you.
It happened, sure. But what is ‘it’?

The present is but a single knot in your tapestry.
Not much, I know.

Ahead? In the future lies:
_____     ___ _____  ____ _______ _  ___ _    _    _          _

Scouring my mental alleyways.

I’ve been keeping a writer’s notebook for a little while. Or, as I sometimes call it, my ‘Little Black Book’. And now feels like a good time to look through it, for some blogging inspiration. I invented a word, and now feels like a good time for something organic and freeflow: More

4am haikus.

 The dark hours.

Dawn lies shattered, slow
darkness bleeds ‘neath blue clockwork.
Time tends to our scars.

Call of the Muse.

Filigree of thought,
webs of dreams. Night calls,
I answer, pen in hand.

Coffee.

Bitter precision.
Backbiting tongues, sky-black as
snakes absent of stars.

Haunted by love.

Memories are like ghosts.

 

They walk where you did, everywhere that you’ve left a little part of yourself behind you. Breadcrumbs. A trail that can’t be followed. And when you return to those places, they peek around the veil and watch you pass, afraid of what they’re going to become. The weight of them fills you up with sheer longing.

 

And then you keep walking, and they fade. Melting back from reality as your shadow recedes. They must sink down through cracks in the pavement, slide through ageing walls, burn up in the sunlight.

 

Gone, but not forgotten.

 

Red robots and shiny blog things.

I’ve been decorating. If you’ve looked along the top, you may have noticed a new link. ‘What say you?‘ is my shiny new feedback form, for your blogging pleasure.

Last time I finally started to write fiction for this blog. I intend for this to be a practice space of sorts, where my imagination can take joy in writing short bits and pieces without taking things too seriously. Feeling Lucky, for instance, is something I made up on the spot. Apart from a quick once-over to check for glaring errors, that is more or less my raw work. Expect more on that story soon! It won’t be too long, but I plan on finishing it before posting any more new material.

And in other news… A quintconsequential I felt I just had to share…

More?

The Post Office:

Disclaimer:

'Quintconsequential' is a word of my own invention, despite the definition in the style of the Oxford English Dictionary featured on the site. By all means, use it, whisper it, shout it from the rooftops. But please, remember that you heard it here first!