Under the dim glow of the desk lamb memories of 2008 flood from my head. I pause, read the shapes that stain the paper, screw it up and start again.
I use a single colour, Blue. Then with a Black Biro scribble over the names and details contained in the self-addressed note.
A letter that may be found only by chance. Perhaps somewhere far away, where someone might read it and fall in love with it's author; another romance doomed from the start.
In the car I start to imagine the narration of my life. In this teen-drama I play the boy who's done wrong by everyone, the boy that no matter how hard he tries seems to tread on everything he once loved, everyone who ever cared for him. The boy that, with nothing left to lose is nearing the brink.
With no destination the drive is somewhat pointless. Then an idea. This note is to be a message in a bottle.
Having failed to have a suitable glass bottle at hand I find myself at a supermarket. Only its closed.Feeling optimistic I drive to a convince store, pull up on the pavement inches away from the door. Stare at the lady behind the desk, and drive off. The store probably doesn't sell glass bottles anyway.
On the shore line a car is sprawled across a disabled bay, lights on and doors wide open. From the cliff edge the sea appears flat and smooth.A sharp wind whips at my face, and the ground crumples under my weight. Sending fragments of red clay hurtling down into the wake of the white below; endlessly crashing against sharp rock.
I pull the crumpled paper out of my pocket, read over a few lines, and tare the sheets into a thousand snowflake like pieces. Loosening my grip, the white memories are quickly scattered across the bay like ashes from a urn.