Before I went to bed, my mother gave me some small bites of food. I felt like a disabled animal being nursed back to health, but I didn’t care. Appearances were no longer of concern to me, much less for the benefit of my mother. In fact, I’d been ‘holding it together’ for so long – in that crudely normal way – that I thought I owed her the honesty. Continue reading
The Turquoise Boy
Edited from feedback: 21 May 2016
If there is a colour in paradise it is certainly turquoise. For Mother and Father it is the colour of their newborn boy, innocent and pure, lovingly cradled and doted upon by his inexpressibly happy parents. It is the colour of his shallow eyes as they fill with the world around him with the knowledge and encounter of phenomena that gently draws him from this to that; from one to all; from me to I and eventually to you.
So I thought it high-time I took on a writing course; subjected myself to failure, learning, and perhaps even moderate success in completing something. Or perhaps I’ll just enjoy learning again, and meeting some interesting people.
Que sera, sera!
Why do I want to write?
Because it’s often quite tortuous to have an idea, insight, fleet-of-foot line of thought that you then do no follow