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Hi all. I’m on a very overdue trip Up North to Preston, the town in which I was born. I haven’t been back to the place of my birth for fifteen years! 🤫🫣 My last time in the city was my mums funeral. There will be more about this trip up North once I gather my thoughts (or not). It’s a lot.
Older bro showing me the flats he lived in as a boy before I was born.
We just drove past the old Seventh Day Adventist Church where we held the service. Thoughts and memories are coming to me in a surprising fashion, and this is giving rise to some very freeform/unstructured poetry - so here’s this morning’s freewrite, which actually kind of answers someone’s question from the other day, which was, “Why do you write?”
. . one time I went to South Africa because this thing was happening - like this thing was happening in England and I'm sure it has happened (or is happening) to other people (or to you) yeah, I'm sure it's happened to you (or other people), like I'd wake up every single day and every single day felt empty of something like very very empty of something, like, bereft. My feet were sinking into the floor, proper sinking into the floor, and nothing was lined in comfort, and I know what you might be thinking... you might be thinking, why there? why there? The answer is, of course, why not why not? I barely had any money, but that was nothing new. It was nothing at all new. I was grieving my mother. Still. I was drinking a bit. I was drinking a bit and grieving my mother, still, and nothing was any comfort.
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