I have been writing since I was a child, for me back then the only thing better than writing was to read. I continued that escape as an adult, took Creative Writing at university, joined writing groups to hone my abilities, wrote for pleasure and for business.
Now I write for me.
Kevin Bacon on the TV screen, slowly removing the white bandages unveiling the void beneath… “Can we talk?”
So many changes in the last few years, finally looking beyond the horizon to my next adventures.
(inspired by the lyric video for Hammock “The Night You Caught Fire”
A thorny issue, this forgiving business. I can’t speak for other faiths but I know from my upbringing that christians are taught that to forgive is divine. Yet how many of us approach divinity?
Sitting in a Starbucks, thinking about fear. It’s a strange thing is fear, it tugs at your sleeve constantly as a reminder that you’re talentless, imperfect, a blight that the perfect tolerate with amusement.
Graveyard roses. I planted some for you. They bloom brighter and sweeter with each passing year.
Memories can be a blessing or a curse, and my memories of Morecambe’s West End are both. Tap shoes and toothache.
We connect through our shared humanity. We grow through our differences. Be human. Be different. Be kind.
I felt I needed to go out and find someone else, someone to replace the *gaping void* that was supposed to be in my newly single life. But that gaping void, like the cake, is a lie.
It always amuses me when people talking about guilty pleasures, I mean, why feel guilty about what you find pleasurable? It kinda negates the experience.
Be here now in the moment.
Enveloped by the blanket of poverty.
Not warm, comforting, safe … but smothering and itchy
Woven from worry wool.