[32]

I have no answers for you.

[30]

[To love is powerful. Opens up possibilities. Closes doubts. Questions answers. Answers questions.]

You know. You know those two sides. The dark seperated from the light. The oil sitting above the weighted level. One happy visible in actions, movements, expressions, presence, the other is the sadness lying in a mixture of words marked for all to see. I poured myself in to that sadness. Watched dreams die in longing. Can you read those sad stories in my eyes? Will you hold us and feel the presence of scars? Do you understand that a part of me will always be lost in that silent sadness?

Understand and this is real.

My heart is full of you and only you.

[29]

Walk past me, tell me to smile. I'll look up at you and think 'yes you're right' and beam.

Where was I?
Soaring in and out of reality, watching the clouds form, part and break, delving back [and forwards] into longings.

'I know she is coming
I know she will look
And that is the longing
And this is the book.'

[28]

Figured it out. Or more guided in to reality.

Life revolves around key moments. These determine us. Mold us. Shape us in to the beings we are today. I believe that many stories are written in our lifetimes, and as life progresses each story layers, picks up speed carrying the story before it. They evolve in to masses. Heavy force fields. Miniature suns. Our life choices become planets. Orbiting. Paths dictated by the strength of sun.

Personal example:
Book 1: Childhood,
Sun: Divorce
(Fear. Abandonment. Loss. Jealousy. Shy. Reliant imagination)

Book 2: Teenager
Sun: Family fear. Body discomfort.
(Crying. Shouting. Mirrors. Dialing tone in hand. Swimming costume. Shame. Don't touch her)

Book 3: Youth
Sun: Love found & lost
(Entwined lives. Happy. Joy. Roundhay Park hill. Suffocating. Dependent. Families)


So absorbed in this last story, a bid to understand it involved tracing each line back to the first chapter, the initial paragraph - the very scene it opened on. Until I lived in it. Literally in it. And yet blissfully unaware until today; triggered by one full orbit.

Chapter 1: She stepped off a train in Kings Cross. Drink. Blue skies. Brown corduroy. Grass. Orange youth hostel walls. Apple. Smiles. Black rabbits. Regents Park. Coach station. Hold. Home.

Did I think that by living near Kings Cross, by working in Kings Cross that I could somehow erase it...build new memories to papier mache over it smothering it in to distant recollection? Or was the attempt to re-live it. Re-live it over and over again. Punishing myself. Do I blame myself? Is it some sick means to remind myself of love lost, errors made, regret untrue?

Last Chapter: She stepped off a train in Kings Cross. Office. Blueberries. Old flames. Camden. Home. New flames. Friends. Explore. Regents Park. Dog. Him. Birthday book:'The Time Traveller's Wife'. Realisation. Home.

New book.
Chapter 1:

[27]

Feel like I live on one side of a glass wall. Glass so thick, sound cannot even permeate the surface. To smash the wall would be destructive. Nothing good comes from destruction; wise to that. I live here. Content. However in minds silent eye I only see half a world. As reminder, a vivid reflection baring all features, hiding no unwanted blemishes, a perfect symmetry of all that is and all that will be.

Does it have to be this one sided?

[26]

Delved in to my drafts. The posts which didn't quite make the cut. Located a little sparrow of a reflection haphazardly formed years ago as I perched in an unfamiliar coffee shop in a now familiar row of St Pancras shops.

"A pot of tea, gorgeous ceramic cup (that narrowly escaped abduction in to my bag) and a table within a café providing a view across the lower St Pancreas International floor. As the world walked by I pretty much sat gazing. It’s incredibly therapeutic.
Stood in the door read the sign ‘....'"


Can't for the life of me recall the sign. I photographed it. Lost it. It was poignant and yet obviously not so memorable enough for it to stick. I was lazy. So lazy. Photographing. Nowadays photographing happens behind eyes, so recollection is not determined by something somebody said, or in this case something written, it exists in a snapshot of scenery touched with fading colouring. In turn tapping in to the internal recording software [o] triggering the whole scene to play [>] - so touchable. A shift to the past called upon by the present. [stop]

Does THAT make sense?

I found a page. Or more the page found me. No. Page found itself. It's the same page, yet it exists in two totally differing worlds. Guess I'm sharing a page, or attempting to share a page. Having absence from page sharing I'm unsure of the rules - who writes first, who turns the page, who determines when to break, when to full stop and capital letter?
Suppose investing in two pens may be a starting pt.