making sense gets boring

rest in your freak

I used to think I’d age into ease. That, at a certain point, I’d unlock some private equilibrium, finally sitting inside my own life like a well-cut suit. Pah! Even now, even here, with books and some life behind me, with years on the clock and miles walked, and deep red world-things that I know FOR SURE,

I get foggy. I feel left behind, taken advantage of, lied to, stuck behind the machine and wherever people tend to be heading now. I still lose the thread. Or maybe I am the liar, the illusionist. Perhaps I didn’t get to where I need to be because I kept on not facing myself.

If I am struggling to write (which I don’t often, because look, there is always this one tree that looks like a wild unhappy creature or cacti that appear haunted or a stain on the table that drives me mad, or something new I havent told you)

…and if I am finding it difficult to respond to people with innocent enquiries like “I’m in town! Where shall we meet and what day are you free?” and said questions send me into a tailspin, I know it ain't the writing or the people that’s the problem — it’s the entire bloody month.

No, the year; the state of play. Something ill and quiet is stealing my air, taking up my centre; a stuck thing. Naming it is half the battle. And when it has no name, what then?

The random How Are You texts throw up somewhat of a problem. When someone you like or even love a bit says, “How are you doing these days?” What is the correct way to respond? What is the ratio of honesty to charm? I drafted a reply six times. “I’m good! You?” “Not too bad!” “So much going on…” “Ah, you know how it is!” “Mate!”

and finally, right back at them - “How Are You?”

I deleted them all and arrived here.