Friday, 27 May 2016

The fiddler

Let the music play
Let the dance turn
Let the song unfold
Let the fiddler burn

He dances in the ashes
Of a city turned to dust
He mocks you and your wishes
To feel unbridled lust

It takes less than a moment
To make your wishes heard
Yet he will not cease playing
Nor do honour to your word

You want to stand unbroken
Before his vile onslaught
Shattered are your dreams
Your wishes ground to naught

The fiddler dances onwards
Trampling your soul
The cushion for his dainty feet
On the pathway to his goal

Do not fear the fiddler
Nor the song he plays
He augurs not your sunset
Nor the ending of your days

Let the music play
Let the dance turn
Let the song unfold
And the fiddler?

He will burn

Man flu

It's fine, I say. I'm still able to work.

It's true, you know. I can think coherently. I can walk, I can run, I can communicate, I can do my job.

But I just sat down alone in a quiet room.

My head is heavy, my forehead is inexplicably mis-sized. When I close my eyes there are high pressured cavities the size of golf balls in my sinuses and my forehead protrudes several inches further forwards than normal. My ears are hot and empty and yet I hear everything through my nose.

When I close my eyes I want to keep them closed - the lines of the sealed lids is hot and dry and when I open them my eyes will feel soggy for no reason. My hair roots itch and the floor is too close. I want to stretch upwards, away from it, but it makes me dizzy - as though vertigo has a grip on me.

I'm tired. So tired I could cry.

My throat vacillates between sore, tender, dry and claggy. Each time I swallow my ears try to pop. There is moisture wrapped around my uvula and my tonsils are extending their grip into the roots of my brain. I can't taste anything or smell anything, but I am convinced I am unclean and stench-ridden.

But I'm fine. I can write this. I can walk. I can run (briefly). I can work. I can do it all.

I don't want to. I want to stay in bed and sleep for days. I want to recline on my sofa and feel secure. I want to not have to think. But if I stay at home watching TV then other people will have to do my work and frankly, they can't. Or, in the case of some of the less pleasant aspects, shouldn't have to.

Wednesday, 25 May 2016

Desired relationship status

This yearning 
Won't fade
These words
Will remain 
Pointless homage
To what could be

If it were you and me
If it weren't for the rest
Our petty problems
These daily fails
The fear

I know you 
Won't speak
You aren't
Or inclined
In my direction
And if you were

Could it be you and me?
Can we ignore the rest?
Our petty problems?
These daily fails?
The fear?

I have a type
It's you
You with 
Interest in me
And inclination
To say something

It's that you and me
We can ignore the rest
Work through the problems
Burn daily fails
Face fear

We could be a team
If we
Could get past
This difference

Wednesday, 18 May 2016

Meta post

All I want to write about is the passage of time, the constancy of the slipping away of life, the underwhelming monotony of adulthood wearing thin the memories of whimsy.

It's depressing, frankly. 

I need an adventure. I need to be inspired, to feel like dreaming is a valid thing. I need spontaneity, romance, perhaps (although I'm not sure I could ever be so uncharacteristic) a little irresponsibility.

Today I had a jam croissant and a slice of incredibly chocolatey birthday cake (not my birthday) on top of my usual soup, sausage roll and fruit, and I already feel that was too irresponsible. 

Heaven forbid I do something actually reckless. I'm not now, nor have I ever been, the sort.

It may be a problem actually - it's very hard to write about recklessness in others when every fibre of your being is screaming "YOU STUPID CHARACTER!" ... It has a tendency to be reflected in the words you use. 

On the other hand, it makes me wonder if my ability to write with ease about characters who *care* is saying good things about me. I don't think of myself as a caring person, but others do. Maybe I care, but don't feel it in the way literature and films tell me I should.

My characters are also typically strong, independent and comfortable shouldering responsibility. 

And apart from Bub, I think they were all female. Bub is a teddy bear, assigned a male gender by his boy. Could have been a lass, I guess.

This is starting to get a bit meta.

Alicia out.

Wednesday, 4 May 2016


I pride myself on telling the truth.

I boast of it.

I recommend it as a lifestyle.

I call it "playing life on hard".

I do this in the full knowledge that there are some truths I avoid saying.

I avoid them because they will make my life harder.