When I read magazines I always open at the back page and read forwards. I can’t eat a bowl of ice cream without first mushing it into a thick, icy paste and pretending that it’s a double-thick milkshake. I often forget to feed Possibility, my goldfish; Hope, his companion, died two weeks ago. My plants go unwatered for days and then drown in the love of being watered every hour.
I write because it’s the one place I can break the mould and feel like I’ve done a good job doing so. A meme that’s also a musing.
I share these sentences because they don’t know how not to be. At least not yet. Maybe one day I’ll wonder why I posted paragraphs with such abandon. For now I’ll just ponder why I prefer to read magazines from the back forwards.
I dreamt last night that death was a cobbled village road on a dark but cosy night. A few street lamps lit the way and I think it had been raining. There were many doors leading off the path and inside one was a bursting coffee shop. The lighting was bright and the counter a beautiful, worn wooden slab. The room was full of departed souls that were laughing and chatting, swaying and remembering. Some carried heavy coats but most were light and floated about, barely touching the floor.
There is another kind of death. More frightening and sorrowful. It is death while alive. Asleep while awake.
My work, in whatever form it takes, tries to ensure that we gather our full measure of life-learnings while we are still breathing. That we don’t merely exist or, worse yet, aren’t the sling-shot through the souls of others in the time we have together.
That we don’t arrive on that cobbled road for our eternal espressos only half formed and overflowing with regret.