From the archive

Once again I am rummaging in writings from my twenties, and here is some rather relentlessly self indulgent twaddle. I kinda like some of the wording though.

Pouring blood, deep from within. Onwards and onwards it pours, a never ending flow towards the sea. These wounds do not heal. They do not scab and slowly ooze to nothing. They pour and pour, draining away your soul. Throwaway relationships, thrown away. They must do what they must do, yet nothing can make it right for those who are left behind. Lies and half truths, small world blown apart and sellotaped back together. Over and over we are kicked down, over and over we bleed and lose more and more of ourselves. Nothing left to give. Two lost souls seek solace in the night in the warmth of each other, only to remind themselves what they lack. And the blood pours.

I loved him when I met him. Maybe before. Souls colliding over awkward conversations and stupid jokes, denial the solution in an impossible situation. Both denying for years what we felt, and when it came to be that denial was no longer necessary, maybe it was that the ship had already passed in the night, sailing on the bloody tide. We were happy for a time.