The Goodbye (for now)

I'm afraid on Tuesday I'll be going away, to an area of France where I'll have little to no Internet access. This happens once a year, every year. So it's thank you, and goodbye for a little while.
I'll leave you with words paraphrased from Stephen King:
"Demons are real. They live inside of us and, sometimes, they win."
You can make the world a better place by owning up to your demons.

I'll see you in three weeks.

The Last Hurrah

Fuck it. We've got the next two months and that might be the last time we're ever truly free again. So throw a dart at a map and we'll take out all our savings and get on your bike (crash helmets all 'round) and drive there. We can sit in sunlight and buy tacky gifts for people we don't really like and laugh and play and read and live and love.

Please say you'll come.

The Fire Grows

The truth always starts as a minority.

The First Sign

For the longest time, I had to pretend to go mad to tell you the things I needed to. We called it art. Because art is the word we assign to our feelings made public. And art doesn't worry anyone.

The Choices

I would like to say that in that moment I wasn't thinking, that I was insane. But I think perhaps it is in these moments, when a mother will jump in front of a train to push her child out of the way, when a person steps between a bullet and their lover, when I agreed to sever all ties to be with you, that we are at our most lucid. It is in these moments that we decide what we will live for. And what we can live without.

The Gaps We Fill

For reasons unexplained, every person in the world is born with a large gaping hole in the centre of their chest. While not uncomfortable, it is widely considered unsightly and pretty much everyone tries to fill it with something. Some people with religion, and others just buy a whole bunch of stuff, and some even fill it with other people.
I left mine alone, though, because I discovered that if you run against the wind at just the right angle, it makes a lovely whistling noise.

The Pattern

You remember that day we were all hanging out, and you were still with her, and I was still with him? Everyone was talking, and I was just watching you and trying not to look like I was watching you. Or rather, I was watching her hands as she trailed them across your chest. It took me a moment to realise she wasn't just stroking you; she was drawing lines and patterns. I couldn't make out all the pictures, but I caught one or two images - a child's drawing of the sun, a stick figure, a smile face. Meaningless little squiggles.
That was the night we first kissed, and I remember thinking - I wouldn't do that, when I touched you. I would draw something that meant a damn. I would write your story, on you.

The Pen and I

There are people who will tell you that you must live apart from your heart. You need to stay away from these people; they're wrong. Art comes from the heart.

The Static in the Sky

That aftermath, the reverberating remains of the very beginning, from back before anything was anything. That chaos, across time and space, across the whole universe. That utter randomness that allows anything to happen.
Never doubt that things can, and will, change.