Writing is proving very hard work.and I have little luck with it either.
Awake at five this morning I started a descriptive piece about dead ships becalmed on a deathly sea; a metaphor for the way I feel these days; you never guessed that I’ll bet. I’d almost finished it when I hit the wrong button and all the text disappeared. This caused some expletives , but undoubtedly saved the world from some very disturbed prose.
Maybe my psychotic ramblings should stay put, but then that leaves me nothing to write about because in the world of the Bewidowed nothing ever happens.
I’ve been tidying my cell because space is precious and there’s no room for oxygen in here. Calmly I threw out several binbags filled with recent comfort shopping until I came across the few things I still have of Tony. I tried and I cried but I couldn’t discard his old T shirts, his slippers or his battered sun-hat. They can be packed away but must stay within reach.
I’m a sad case I know, but I’m like a witch with her dried herbs and her mummy dust. She can’t conjure her demons without them and I can’t reach the comfort of Tony’s love without the feel and smell of his possessions.
Love may not last forever but you can blow on the ashes and get a little heat.