Wednesday, 31 December 2008

when the glitters gone

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.


Tim in Italy said...

Letters to ones self, especially of the mid-winter variety, are best written and then disposed of in ways that are irretrievable. You did the right thing. ABD = Already Been Done. No reason to rehash it all. You can't change it and you can't make it go away. Best thing to do is to move on. We all leave little piles of moldering shite in our wake. Anyone who says they don't is a liar. And while trying to clean them up so the view back is as unblemished as the view forward is tempting, it's a terrific waste of time and it takes us from away from what we should be doing: living.

This note was more to me than to you, by the way. I could have written it someplace else, like my forehead, but that "0 comments" note on such a thoughtful, honest blog always nits at me like an itch I can't scratch.

Tim in Italy said...

You've got a great ass, by the way. Did I tell you that already?