Adrift

in my own world
misplaced in my own reality
No longer sure where I was heading
The place that I came from gone

Where do I go when directions are lost?
Where is my compass, my guiding light?

Here alone, wherever here is
no way of knowing if I’m moving at all

Paddling weakly in circles,
serene surface ripples
the only evidence I’m still alive

Eyes closed
Ears not listening
not wanting to hear
the silence that exists between two nowheres

Simple Maths

   500 words per day

= 3,500 words per week

= 14,000 words per month 

Therefore: 

6 months to write an 85,000 word novel 

Easy… I can do that… can’t I? :-)

Summer Evening

Trees burning golden

Honeysuckle overpowers

my wilting senses

Balmy

Under parasol

gentle patter of raindrops

audible, not seen

Gone

“You don’t get to choose how you’re going to die. Or when. You can only decide how you’re going to live. Now.”

Joan Baez

I wonder what I would do if I could choose how to spend my last few hours?  What would any of us choose? 

Grab a cab and head to the wilds of the Jersey coast, feel the sea breeze in your hair… a sandwich and bottle of wine at a beach bar alone… drink, chill, watch the surfers, feel the spray on your skin as the tide races in… no worries, no fears, no plan, no pain… collected hours later as arranged before the sun sets…

Just a short while after she spent three hours doing what she loved best, her home help found she had peacefully died in her wheelchair, the sea salt still in her hair…

Achingly sad…

This has to be one of the most tear-inducing sites I’ve ever seen…

 http://turbulence.org/Works/saddest/

Plodding On

countryside

gradually more hilly

obstinately uncraggy 

A gentle descent

into Warm Springs 

It sounded like such a nice place

to pass away

Catching Up

Life gets faster

Running so quickly

I can’t see where it went

Winter at Camber Sands

Winter at Camber Sands

Originally uploaded by Cantilena.

Melancholy

Caroline dragged the heavy wool blanket further towards her chin, noticing the slight scratch of the material.  What time was it?  It was dark, despite the curtains being open.  The sash cord had broken when she opened the window too enthusiastically a few weeks ago.  Now it was stuck, half open, the wind having blown last Sunday’s newspaper into separate leaves all over the floor.  The window rattled, irritating her.  Caroline pushed the black hair away from her eyes and peered at the luminous green numbers on the video recorder.  2:07 am.  Good.  That meant it was still last night and not tomorrow yet; she could legitimately have another glass of wine.  She sighed, noticing the Merlot stain on the arm of the saggy, cream chair.   

The television was on in the kitchen.  She liked leaving something on in every room.  It didn’t make her feel less lonely, quite the opposite.  It compounded her knowledge that there was life going on around her; she just didn’t want to be a part of it.  The wine bottle was empty so she filled up the wine glass with whiskey.  Back in the sitting room, she pressed the ‘play and repeat’ buttons on the CD player.  Tom Waits.  How many times had she listened to this CD?  She rested the glass on top of the red wine stain, twisting the platinum wedding ring around on her finger.  She supposed she should stop wearing it.  It had become too loose anyway over the last few weeks.  She hadn’t noticed losing weight.  Wearing her pyjamas with an oversized fleece, she couldn’t remember when she had last got dressed.    ‘Ice Cream Man’ was far too cheery but lasted just a few minutes before it slid into a tinkling, simple tune that reminded her of her old jewellery box, the perfect but hard ballerina who turned without expression until the music stopped.   

Caroline let the music wash over her, closing her eyes and ignoring her hideously chipped aubergine nail varnish as she hung grimly onto the glass.  She had let her grey hairs show for the first time in years too.  She loathed whiskey but gulped it down. 

The honky tonk piano sneaked into her dream.  She was in ballet class, alone except for the old lady who used to knit in between playing the music on the rickety upright that echoed tunelessly around the draughty church hall.   

The sky was glowing indigo when Caroline next opened her eyes.  As she hadn’t technically been to bed, it seemed reasonable to have another drink.  She watched the sky change colour, unable to tell when it had finished getting light, no definable start to the day.  Caroline considered going into the garden to sit with the pale moon, still hanging in the sky.  The stripped wood of the floor felt forgiving through her socks as she got up to go to bed.  The television mumbled on in the kitchen.