Why did you go just when I needed something to believe in? When I needed to look out there and know that magic existed? When I needed to listen to music and have the words mean something, have them guide me towards decisions I found too difficult to make on my own?
Now I keep my eyes averted, looking at nothing, and for the first time in my life music no longer speaks to me. My iPod – once a source of comfort – lies unused and useless and I can barely pick it up without a shudder.
It’s like you timed it perfectly – I was searching desperately for inspiration and you upped went away. You were my source. It was you who first made me shake with the sheer power of your words, break out in gooseflesh at a mere tremor of your voice. It was you who surprised me with my own tears, and taught me that perfection could cause me to cry. It was you who first filled me with longing, before I was old enough to know to call it desire. It was you who made me realize that magic wasn’t just for children, it was you who taught me that it was ok not to grow up completely. It was all you. And now you’re gone. Continue reading Why did you go?
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
– W. H. Auden
26 June 2009
Its 6.36 am and I’m in bed, not wanting to get out of it. In tears and in shock. Not wanting to write, but needing somehow to acknowledge this terrible, terrible thing.
I woke up to a series of texts and they all said the same thing: “He is dead, I can’t believe it”. I could barely breathe, the tears started before I could stop them as my shaking hands googled his name to find out what had happened. Even now, after reading the same thing over and over and over again, I can’t believe it. My tears keep coming and the shock is still new, painful and ugly. We have lost something. Something good. There is a hole in the world, and no one can make it right.
Continue reading Michael Jackson: Never Can Say Goodbye
Sadness inspires – I find the connotations of this rather grim, but I still can’t deny the truth of it. Why doesn’t happiness have the same effect, I wonder? Some of man’s best work was created in fits of rage, anxiety, insecurity and extreme pain.
A sad story is always a good story. I don’t like it at all, but I am a child of the same monster.
Even now as I feel my heart is breaking once again, I feel the need to write.
Is it because I need distraction? Is it because I need to get the ache out of me and writing is the only way I can do it? Or is it simply because sadness awakens creativity for some mysterious reason?
I don’t know. I don’t even care. I just want to write. Continue reading Love. Lost.
She just wanted to stop moving. They had been moving for so long. She rubbed her eyes tiredly, still sleepy after being grabbed from her bed and told to run without any warning. They hadn’t stopped moving since.
That was hours ago – she knows this because while she started off stumbling in pitch darkness, clutching her mother’s hand so that she wouldn’t fall, she could now dimly see her way as the night gave way to a grim, cloudy morning.
It was hot. Her dress stuck to her, wet with sweat and her bladder was getting uncomfortably full. She looked around at the crowd surrounding her family and desperately tried to stave off the feeling. No toilets here. There were scattered bushes she could have ducked behind, but she sensed now was not the time to stop moving, although she so badly wanted to. Besides, who knew what was behind those bushes, watching, waiting. She felt a mosquito bite into the flesh of her thigh and paused to slap it. She looked at her hand to flick off the dead insect and found it covered in blood. Hers. Continue reading The Choice