A letter to no one

I am a letter to no one
A cry in the dark
A knock on the door of an empty house.

It's an eventuality of fiction that everything has to end, and more so now reality bangs up and stops us in our tracks. A song, a play, a book, a meal, a conversation, a wistful giggle at the most wonderful moment. To last forever is to morph it into a constant. A thing that we take and take but never think about it until it has run out and we are left without.

It goes for good and bad, light and heavy, the weak and the strong. We last forever in one way and never exist in another. A thought to dwell on and ponder but not in a worrying strife. Perhaps we know too often when things will change, and thus like it that bit more.

My hair never behaves better than on the day it will have the chop. A book never gets so good until the final chapter. Some one's smile is always brighter on the final boarding call of a flight embarking halfway across the world.

I've made all these decisions to change- did you know? To be tougher, stronger. bite the bullet and beat the drum. To march to my own music and seek out the fear and laugh in it's face. It's a change, it's different.And as I embark on it, my old life couldn't love more appealing if it were wrapped in a blanket, cuddled on a bed in the middle of a softly lit room just waiting for me.

I write emails that I wish I was brave enough to send. Smart enough to click the button, but I can't.

It would change a million things in one tiny second.

And yet if I do want this change....

Avoid eye contact

The first time you walk the corridor you meet a stranger. A smile flickers shyly and a friend is made. Whether it be through association, off the cuff brash bravery or sheer boredom that allows the courtesy of friendship to unfold. It is real- it is felt.

Then; unbeknown st the feelings fade, the flicker dims, the smile is more tightly formed. The corridor lengthens with a time spent apart, the meetings along the way to each destination become briefer, less define. Less there.

Avoidance becomes necessity to negate to awkwardness that crusts over with time. Cautiously watching steps, checking ahead, side stepping and hurrying so as not to encounter the once cherished friend.

Lets not deal with the;

"Hi, how are you?"

Hit with a wall of lost time conversation takes its last breath and reminisces to a time of easy laughter, bright eyes and brighter tales.

Off the wall we are met with perhaps sadness, change almost certainly and a finer sense of what was gained and in turn lost.

A friendship formed is never done. No matter where we walk.

No.

I need to change this blog, it's decided. The thought is an action.

The page looks hurried, uneasy.

The words aren't what they should be.

So change.

Good plan.

There's no thought without thought

I spend ages concerned with concepts, ideas, plots, other people...but seemingly, and more so unapparent I spend less time in action. Doing something is far more tedious than the thought out process for the procrastinator in me.

Recently I have taken to deleting some of my blogs and keeping it within the range of "self thought" and preservation. There are 145 blog entries on this page- are any of them really... OK? I don't want to delete them all in a brash cry of impatience. Even though, lets face it the loss would not be so great.

I've started to look at what I write with a less critical eye and a more productive air- instead of immediately wanting to delete all the words and being impatient with myself I like to think what I could add to make it more readable and what I could take away to make it less a dramatic cry of pretension (although the last three paragraphs are certainly up there with the best of them).

I will always love and use words- there will always be a string of sentences I want to pearl together. Not just for pretty thought sake. It's more so out of necessity. If I do not write everyday I will be restless. The thoughts in my head will build up to such an extent that I will not have room for anything else; just thought. And while that could be a worry, I don't think it is something that will ever happen. There is always a scrap of paper, an almost run out pen. I will always have the ten minutes to scribble down the thought.

Then later on when the day is sleeping and my mind is ready to tell me stories I will look at the crumbled receipt, wonder why I kept it, turn it around in my fingers and find the line. The line in my head that is now a full story.

I'll sigh, start up my near death bed stricken laptop and run my fingers over the letters. Hopefully the string doesn't knot me up in some hopeless case of all night exhaustion.

But if it does, so be it.