Friday 5 September 2014

Loss



How easy is it to lose yourself, through the pain of transition, through the everyday horrors of life, lasting and surviving pouring the milk, brewing the coffee, looking them in the eye. How easy is it to lose yourself with nothing, on your own, only looking to what's inside to bury it, without the help of the next drink, or inhaling the fumes, or the shiny little pills prescribed by the doctor, or bought in the park, small and shining and alive. I lost myself, but then I came back, I always come back, and the light is somehow more subdued, edges have got blurred, every time. Every time slightly more.