Rather be here writing than there whithering.

Dreaming

Moonlit the beach damp, sand cold and softly sunken stood awaiting for the rising tide.No feelings of panic, an awareness of the bodies and their old familiar faces standing spread around the shore. Turn to look upon them and slowly the water laps up and engulfs body and mind. To the sea gazing now, head faced down into the water. Blue, clear and gentle it swept with it, no loss of breath, no fear or concern for loss of life. Stillness is felt as the water surrounding seems to ease and envelope into safety. The sensation of surprise fills the mind, no one comes, and no one helps. Is help needed at all? Head lifts out suddenly. Nudity becomes apparent, again no one around seems to notice the feelings of inadequacy. Continue to forget this awareness and walk on. Surrounded again by familiar faces in the night, comforting a stranger and begin to apologise. Someone asks, "have you done something wrong?” Consider this question. Holding a deflating globe, throw it aside and attempt to catch the past. A friend arm in arm with her younger ego, embracing the self old and new. Questioning where do I fit, with whom do I belong.

Stop chasing others, focus on the self and face the feelings inside you.

Hands that age with beauty, i remember tracing the veins that held us. In her arms was safety, wrapped up in woollen blankets and tenderly we were loved. Walking through life she guides our eyes and minds to the beauty that the world holds for us. Every word she speaks adorning our young and curious minds with confidence, wisdom, passion and peace all perfect and precious gifts. Walking through grave yards subtlety she spoke of life, reading out the inscriptions and steadily revealing the briefness of time till she too would be gone. “When i die ... surround me with flowers.” In childish innocence, I spoke out in disbelief. “But you are not old, you cannot die.” Forever she should remain, never old or sick, the concept of loss seemed unreal to me. It is only right that in woodlands she found her resting place, among the blue bells, aging trees and travelling rivers a place to which we would visit bringing a comfort to us all.

Gingerly my writing roots will show...

Thinking back to Aberystwyth it's coastal views, student pasted shores and vomit stained streets, the seas fermented waves hitting hard against a distant Victorian dream. It's land wrecked and ruined at the hands of student culture, as if to remind us we are but mortals and natures fury will reclaim and engulf the gifts we have abused.

I speak of this town as if it had no lessons to teach me, of what i was and what i should be. Was it there i began to awaken from my innocent distractions and empty drunk pursuits. The drink on my lips, dribbling and poisoning this conciousness. Revealing my unthankful body and releasing me of charge aas unseen i drift away into an unhappy state. Anger and fear burn deep inside me and bitter flickers out across my once softened mouth. Loved ones bare this seething unrest and excuse it for an alcoholic twist to my otherwise untarnished soul. What little they know of what awaits inside, we blame the liquor for a last grasp of that Capricorn. But truly we understand the awakening disease that plagues are quiet thoughts, it wishes to have justice, to be granted respect for the innocent inside that was deprived of its rightfully childish imperfections.

From my window i cannot see terrace houses of multicoloured confidence and the flinted South Beach stones. Now there are vast spaces of green, dying apple trees, mounds of rubbish yet to be burned and numerous motored vehicles, x-army, racing, trucks, trailers and containers. My static walls allowing the howls of unheeded dogs to pass through them, no sound goes unheard.

Inside this metal box, old, patched and quietly rotting under foot i sit wondering about what lies beyond, warning sensations rise calling for us to leave this sluice that draw us ever nearer to things better avoided.

Is life so real and bitter?