Monday, 12 August 2013


There is a blog post here that can never be written. Not even written but not published. Irrational?

Probably not.

Sunday, 11 August 2013


When you've cried for an hour it's impossible to go back. When you reach three you realise nobody noticed anyway so it doesn't really matter.

The pain of loneliness is crippling, but you hide in the shadows to save embarassing people near with painful red eyes. But it doesn't really matter.

You scream inside as you despair for the help that will never come, the same help you would offer in an instant. But then it doesn't really matter.

And as you finally crawl in to bed fully clothed because you can't admit even to yourself how you've wasted more time as you've wasted so much before. Yet it doesn't really matter.

Then at four in the morning, it starts again, tears pool and fall with each pain driven rend. You fear of what's next, what twist of life's knife. And all you know is it just doesn't really matter.

I'll be fine.

Monday, 5 August 2013


As I'm in a constant search for distractions, any distractions I brought a carton of Oven Pride back with me. Yep, it was time to clean the oven. It really had reached the point of being embarrassing.

So that's what I did on Sunday night and was the most fun I've had all weekend. But it gets better than that...

I had to clean it off this morning...

Anyway, must find another distraction, what with my phone switching itself off regularly and not wanting to go near Twitter for fear of (a) ranting and (b) seeing how smug people are.

Not that I begrudge that, I just don't want to be reminded about how empty life is.  And in the unlikely event that you read this and are offended that you chat with me regularly can I just point out that I'm fed up with talking with my finger.

I'll not ask the question, I know it's too much to ask.

At least I have five shiny days of work to distract and exhaust me.

Sunday, 4 August 2013


It's a dangerous place inside my head.

The urge to self destruct is massive and there is no release. No safety valve. No distraction.

Just relentless, interminable, growing hatred of myself. Hatred of mono-outcome decisions that lead to inevitable, crushing, loneliness. Hatred of how insular I'm becoming because I don't want to poison others. Hatred of the pain. Hatred of the unrequitable desire to touch and be held. Hatred of my inability to suppress the feelings and desires. Hatred of being unable to act.

It's a dangerous place inside my head.

I need comfort food...

Saturday, 3 August 2013

Moving forward

I've only truly been in love once. The trouble was it didn't appear until late in life and when it did I suddenly realised what an awful sham everything else had been.


Especially as (a) I was married to somebody that I couldn't think of a good reason to not be married to and (b) I was about to embark on a massive life change. It was a bit like the first time you hear a live performance and feel the music and know everything else was just a precursor at best.

So I put the change on hold as I knew that there was something more important.

Then there wasn't. The reality is I always knew this was never going to be more than just a glimpse of would could have been. I hoped, but was realistic.

And then, like Saint Elmo's fire, it was gone. It took time to adjust, to accept. A long time. And there was even one last moment of sublime humiliation before I could say...

It's time to change.

So I placed my heart in a box, tied memories with a ribbon and embraced my future. Whatever it would be.

I can't say it's ideal, I'm still in love for a start, but that's changed form, it's just deeply caring and hoping desperately for somebody else's happiness.

Surely that's the best way to be?

Ultimately I'm scared about my journey, but I also can't see a reason to go back.