Pulses

Tapping out a steady beat for days now
My mind tells me to slow; to stop
To pull the cord; deploy the chute
And glide, drift, float
Letting the world direct me for once
Rather than battling fiercely
Fighting the torrents of lists tasks and types
The joyful people who cling, bleed, and suck energy until
None remains.
Nothing but a bloated skeleton fed up and picked clean
You're feeding on it too. I let you.

Questions

They must be obscure,
I lose my thoughts in their letters
My footing unsure

They must be obtuse
Willing me to sink knee deep
Miring my mind

What must they ask
They know me already. They wait in the shadows.
I'm helpless

Your designs are the solution.
Your solutions are my question
Your trap interrogates, crushes, and sighs.

Fatigue

I'm being hunted.
By thoughts
chasing me interminably towards a void

Useless. Endless. Mindless
Hours parked static
Waiting for that final pounce.

I won't join the party
I'll tuck myself away for now
Quietly behind you

Little animal noises

Sometimes it's overrated to be human.
Baser instincts prevail and it all starts seeping out
And then rushes in a torrent of emotional release.

And now
Drained and damaged it's time to put on a human face again
Play along
Suck it up
And be what I must.

And be what I will

Gentle

It's the approach.
The tone, the touch, the look.
Mouth, hands, eyes.
And the response. Gentle begets gentle.
All kindness moving forward please.
Life is far too short for brutal truths.

Grammar

I wonder if we think in tenses too much.
The past and future suffocate us at times - obscuring and sabotaging pure joys to be had in the present.

I'd like to programme my mind to think the way I write. I'd like to be able to edit out the rough work - check my tenses and rework the grammar.

Will you be my proofreader? Get out your red pen and mark me up.

Sancerre

I sipped your abandoned glass and thought carefully about the taste.
I looked down at my tired feet and considered a change.

The call came sooner than I expected.
What next?

Time is running short. Like the last hours on a flight before landing.
I'm anxious about the arrival.

In retrospect perhaps the departure should have been my concern.

Dilated

It's dark
Eyes open wide
Pupils swallowing colour into their giant black discs
Searching for that one look
That will imprint on the consciousness

This dilated perspective is skewed

And I'm no longer able to judge

But I don't want to.  Can you?

Buzz

I'm lying awake and buzzing
And enjoying the buzz

My mind a frenzy of ideas
Plans
Fragments of thoughts
Like an old roadmap
Teeming with details
Missing the critical updates

Let's go old school
Travel by wing
Search for the sweetest nectar

I know where to look

Lines

I'm going to draw a few
But not where you expect

Ice

This medium
is perfect.
It Preserves
Enchants
Mesmerises
With every slight movement it draws us in
And pushes imperceptibly closer
Tightening around us
And before we can bail, it's towering above us
Locking in electric blue
Rocking slowly
Showing off it's untapped power

And there is no way out
But we're moving
Towards the thaw

Grilled

High temperatures are the most risky.
We crave them, desire them, dream of them...
Especially when we think we'd be happier with them

But when it's too hot - we don't know what to do.
we're grilled before we know it:
Suspended - snuffed - split -
Before our own fires and the equipment we use to keep them at bay.

It's time to carry on in the stifling flames
Breathe in the smoke and spit it out again.
In your face

You don't dislike it, do you?
It's a little bit of alright.
It chokes you and frees you from
Everything you thought you hated.

Now look this way...

Ditch

I'm not sure I'd be happy in the ditch all the time
Dirty beggars, scummy foam, drizzle imperceptibly soaking my skin
Leaving me shivering and unsure
But there's a time and a place for a bit of grunge
It breathes reality into life
It licks off the sugar coating
It allows us to appreciate every perverted detail
See distilled colours around us
Feel the lightning touch of the tips of the end of the wohrld.
Like static. An electrified gesture
And then sink. And enter the glacier.
Keep me there.

Global

I'm starting to feel rather local
How do I hold onto the worldwide groove
And ensure I'm not stuck in a scratch
Repeating the same things over and over and over
Automatic engaged - thinking paused

Feels like time to change things abit
Stir it up
Mix a combustible substance into the essence of it all
A catalyst for creative dives into unexpected dreams

Your dreams?
I wonder what's in them?
I wonder where they'll take us if we close our eyes and succumb to
What's well beyond meaning

Junk

Three blissful hours
Words looping through crevices and folds
Finding their way deep under my skin, finessing -sliding- gliding
Burrowing past the conscious into unheld meaning
Stories meandering around and about each other
Familiar names and warped features that flash again before my eyes as I try to sleep.
I'm haunted by these unknown people I've grown to care desperately for
Who populate the space between my eyes and my cortex
Did you introduce us?
I think you know them too
Let's find them - slip into their lives. Make ourselves at home.

Doors

Shunted roughly from one reality to another

Pushed through 

the elements suspended in the frame

Screens and vaults and wood and hollowed out echoing shells

Each one guarding an untold chapter

Can we prop this fire door open for now?

The flames are ravenous. 

Down

Starched white oceans
Stifling drug-infused breezes
Each breath a tranquilising concoction
Treacle in my joints
Warping time and motion into a gluey gelatin
Breath - lungs pressed down by dark low thoughts
Singed black and brittle
Chemical and crude
Life tries to play with the pause button on.
And pulls me down into a knotted tangled pile on the floor

Removal

Wouldn't it be great if we could call a removal van for our souls?
Not to take them away as such, but to specify the imperfect, annoying elements that have to go.
No need for quiet contemplation or purifying cleanses. Just a call. Or an email even.

But identifying the true culprits would be difficult. Those bits that seem problematic might be our saving grace one day.

What are yours?

Dark tunnels

Once you reach a certain point it feels futile to turn back, doesn't it?
Blackness stretching out in every direction.
One way to travel. Two options to choose from.
Energy leaking through the hairline cracks - offering a tempting - an alluring glimpse of another world.
I glimpsed it tonight. Well after I walked free.
It looks ....
It looks like. -
It feels as if -
I was bathing in a pond of tar surrounded by free falling cotton candy butterfly wings.
Or leaning back onto a warm, cushioned, blue-bottomed black hole recliner
Where the ice morphs into a chasm of intense scrutiny.
Where the dead souls call you down and drag you in.
It feels like another chance to get it right and go very wrong.
And the intensity is right - and the outcome must be worthwhile.

Growl Station

I'm standing on the platform of Growl Station and hope I can find my way home again before too long.
You left me stranded here, and it feels like there are no trains back tonight.
Seriously?  I want to be anywhere else. I need to jump on the next departure to anywhere. I could hop in to a stranger's car and say, 'Take me anywhere. Wherever you're going is where I want to be.'
I'd be happy to ride a camel for a month to escape.
So.
What are you going to do about it?
You're the reason I'm here in the first place.
Get me out. Now.
There are no niceties needed. Just action.
Stand up, look deep into my eyes, lift me up on your shoulders, and allow me to feel safe and happy once again as the station drifts away into the background.
You have it in you. I know you do.

Crossing

A static day.  Watching others in motion.
But you know what I wanted to do?
Be your guide.
And be guided by you too.
We were almost there.
I could have taken your slender, almost delicate, hand.
And waited. Close enough to breathe in your scent.
Near enough for the fizzing 'what-next' feeling.

But today was not a day for action; not a day to breach another border.
Today was a day to watch and wait and think and contemplate.
All the possible crossings to consider ahead.

Mindfulness

Call it what you will.
But I like anticipation
You can feelittasteitsmellit and you know what it looks like
But what you don't know is what keeps you on your toes

Make me a ballerina
Keep me fit and primed
I'm prepared to wait
For as long as you see fit.

Disappearing act

Key factors?

Fear

Confusion

Determination

Repression

Angst

Intelligence

And an unfounded feeling of superiority

Or  perhaps it is not any of those. Perhaps it's just not the right time. 

So. When is?

It couldn't have been clearer.

Or perhaps it wasn't clear at all

It couldn't be more obvious. 

But it's terribly obscure. 

And therein may lie the problem. 

So find a quiet place. 

Lie down. 

Put all worries to one side

And materialise just as you are

Imperfections exposed to scrutiny. 

Affection.  Warmth. Kindness. 

And watch how they disappear. 

That. Is the only disappearing act needed tonight. 

The present tense

I should be feeling rotten but I'm not. I'm feeling quite fine.
Fierce, even.
Or perhaps a contented relaxed demeanour would describe my present state.
Pleased with myself and the world.

What has made me stop to reflect is the why.

Why aren't the negatives getting me down?
Why does bad news deliciously deflect?
Why am I sitting here smiling a slow sly smile?

It's partially internal - the default setting.
But it's external too - it may even be you.

Shivers

Little electric pulses that travel up and down my spine
They came out of the blue
They feel good but I wonder if they mean danger is at hand

Buzzing stinging burning tingling
I don't know what to make of them but I'd rather they didn't stop for now.
Or should they?

Pause. Reboot and wait.

Are they still there?

Blue

I'm not saying I'm sad

It's just the colour.
I like looking at it, wearing it, bathing in it

It's the shade of choice - pale, translucent, water, sky.

I tried to jump in last night
It felt like floating and drowning all at once

Let me stay lost in it for now
My happy place
My zone of soft supple sweetness
Hold me there
You know what's best

Blurred vision

Mango tequila cocktails
Bandol
Red Greek elixir
Strawberry focaccia
Coconut ice cream
Summer dreams

Blended into a recipe of tingles and tantalising tastes

My eyelids half-close

But I can still see
You
There

Why did you send me this music?
Is it a coded message?

I'll read it however I like.
I know what you meant.
I know what you want.
And I know what I want too.

Made in Brazil

There is no doubt that we are shaped by our experiences - that our exposure to an 'other' changes our brains and the way we perceive ourselves and the world around us, be it home or away.

The time I've spent abroad has made me who I am, and both the best bits of me and worst bits of me were definitely made in Brazil.  I hold onto these qualities - the perfect and flawed - even as my new home tries to wrestle them away from my sense of self.

I like the edge they give me and how they test me and keep me on my toes.  Made in Brazil is by no means perfection, but perfection is dull.

Perhaps it's time to go back for a short visit to keep it fresh.
I think you'd enjoy it too. Fancy the flight?

High Wire

These past weeks have been a balancing act.

Maintaining a flawless performance whilst being aware of the consequences of even the smallest mistake.

It's terrifying up here. Next week I will afford myself the luxury of a zip wire ride down to terra firma. Where I can make mistakes without repercussions.

What will the first one be? Do you have any suggestions?

I bet you do....

Common

Stealing a moment outside this afternoon was a shared experience.
The sun shone
The warmth soaked into our skins
We felt like cats curled contentedly by an open window or a roaring fire.

It wasn't particularly special.
It was exceptional
The epitome of what it means to be alive and awake.

The smells of tar and petrol mixed in with the pleasurable scents of the afternoon
The ducks fighting the current, then giving in and riding the river
The smiles on so many faces
The bustle and energy of a thousand lives compressed into streaks and strips and paths along the water.

I'm staying. As long as the sun cooperates.
And I'm waiting for you.

The list

Guest lists
Shopping lists
To do lists

And the unwritten lists
Changing lists
Lists that undergo a metamorphasis as you read them

You might be on my list...
You might wish to know what kind of list it is...

I know the one I'm on.
You're on it too
Did we meet there?

Tranquility

Silence. Rest. Peace.
Even in the bustle of the city.
It doesn't matter where you are if your head is in the right space.
It doesn't matter who next to you is having a meltdown or screaming at their loved ones.
Having total utter autonomy with no one to answer to or bicker with is pure joy.
Seeing a movie alone is uplifting.
Perusing art at the pace that suits you best is a rush.
And the tea.
And the guilt-free savoured morsels of bakewell tart.
Well. You are what you eat.
You might have joined me today.
I would have shared.

You would have enjoyed opening your mouth and letting me feed you sweet almond bites of pleasure.
You might have licked every last crumb off the fork.
Life doesn't get much better than that.
Next time I'll be sure to invite you along.

The Blast

Awake but inert.

Thinking about the impressions we make on others.

How much is the way we look?  How much is the way we smile? How much is in the eyes?  Our words?  How they express our thoughts?  I'm sure most of you would agree it's a combination.

Don't we like to see the part we like best of ourselves reflected back in those around us?  Of course we do. It's gratifying.

I would like to project an intangible blast of love at those around me. Something they can sense - like the warmth of a fire on a cold night. Something they can feel safe and calm surrounded by.

Can you feel it?  I'm trying. Close your eyes. Appearance means nothing. There it is.

Dessert

The appetiser was exhausting

The main was a crushing blow

The dessert was like a day at work

But the fortified wine made it all worthwhile

Drinking from the secret well of life feels right.  

Have you tried it?  Are you awake?  

Inside out

I sometimes feel like I've been shucked, peeled and gutted. My shell reversed to better strip me of my flesh and soul.

I sometimes feel like a tree laden with ripe, rotten fruit that no one wants to eat.

How can we find the right balance between?  It's awful to be over stretched, over used, run ragged and depleted. It's soul crushing to be left behind alone and unwanted. I would there was an elastic band. Stretchy and resilient. Allowing us to ricochet from one extreme to the other - having our fill at our leisure - no one else's.

Have you got my size?

Again again and again

I'm thinking today of how to articulate my thoughts accurately in words.

Some days I can type and type and type but getting to the essence of the matter is virtually impossible.  

Other days every word is perfect - right from the start.

And there is the rare moment when I know my reader is fully with me. It doesn't matter what I write because they already know the darkness in my soul.

You know it too.
So now, I'm wondering how to write the most unwritable feelings.
Ripping the tiles off the floor of my abdomen
And laying them down face-up for inspection.
Let's build something, shall we?

Th Age of the Martini

I want mine shaken
I want it stirred
I want a twist
I want blue cheese
I want it dirty

Why not apply those across the board?

Give me them in spades. Mix them up. Unsettle me. Make me giggle and tell secrets.  Release me from the last of my inhibitions. Pare me down to my essence and fill me up with spontaneity, life, tickles, and truth until they demand the ultimate release.

Landing

There is an exhilaration that accompanies take-off
But landing brings pure, simple relief.

The worst of the journey is over: the best is a twinkling of the imagination - a happy dream of delights past or to follow

The juxtaposition of the beginning and the end encapsulates a landing. Are we on the brink of a great moment? Or the finale of what was the adventure of a lifetime.

I'd like to make every landing the start of another incredible journey.  Would you like to join me?

Voodoo

Someone has been working a kind of weird magic on me.
Was it you?

Did you wave a wand and cast a spell?
Did you boil a toad and chant a crazy rhyme?
Did you call on Gods to make your wishes true?

Well whatever you did, it worked.

My toes are curled
My mouth is dry
My stomach is all in a tangle of knots

And I am flickering and fluttering
But not fighting

Cracks in the tilework

They're just fine.
We need them to remind ourselves of our own imperfections.
We need them to reassure ourselves that everything's okay.
We need them to feel alive.

Bubbles

This week has been a feast of bubbles!
Bubbles on my tongue. Bubbles in my thoughts. Bubbles putting a bounce in my step.
I feel deliciously effervescent.
Light-headed and giddy.
Luminescent and lively.

Let there be bubbles on tap forever -
Will you share them with me?
Perhaps we can lie awake tonight and see where they take us.
Wherever it is, it will feel like home.

Scratching Itches

Sometimes it isn't anything more than a thought.
Sometimes it isn't anything more than a word.
Sometimes it isn't anything more than a simple gesture.

But that's all you need to feel reassured sometimes.
And that's enough.

Shoes

There is nothing better than your favourite pair of shoes.

The ones you've had for years and you always go back to.

The ones that always make you feel like a million dollars:
you feel like you can do anything with them - you feel like a better version of yourself.

Taking them off makes you feel like you're losing a part of yourself - like you're amputating a bit of your soul.

I hope I never have to give up my shoes - they complete me. I love them now; I'll love them forever.

Time bomb

It is like running a race knowing that although the finish line lies ahead, there are still a few laps to go.

It is like someone loosely bound my feet together, and it was okay at first, but now they are tightening up the bonds, and walking is an awkward shuffle.

It is like asthma - restricted tight and painful - without respite or the option to pause, think, and take a slow deep breath.

It is like being on the wildest, craziest most unpredictable ride in the world - I want to get off but I desperately want to stay on so I can know what it's like and see it through to the end.

Soon the last big loop will be over and breathing will return to normal, and I'll be able to run again - wherever I like!  And you can come with me. Hold my hand. I'll point to the past and explain that looks can be deceiving. I'll allow you a little peek into the magic window of time. And. My friend. I'll fill the cup for you and  let you sip.   And close your eyes. And smile. And dream.

Unborn tomorrow and dead yesterday

And the beauty of the NOW.

It was tricky today. The nowness of now - shifting from a sparkling brisk sunny break to the dark cave of gloom and despair. How dare I be invited there? How could it feel like such a trap yet seem so genuinely necessary.

It can't go on like this in any case.  There are too many nuances - too much gloom. There is too little understanding. Time to open the doors, unshutter the windows, and let the light creep through the cracks and invade. Take over and render us blind to anything but the joys of now.

And if we can't see them for what they are staring us in the face, then we must create them and shape them as we wish them to be.

Personal Policy

I'm putting the finishing touches on a work policy today, and the thought occurred to me that I should have one too.

It would make everything that much easier, don't you think?: 'Please refer to my Personal Policy.'

But how should I write it?  Vague and open to interpretation (and misinterpretation) or specific to more detail than you might be comfortable with?

It might limit the crazy moments that make life so much fun - or it might make life that much more of a ride.

Who would read the fine print? Who would take the time to understand the nuances of the language, and the waivers and loopholes woven into the fabric of the text?

We all have unwritten policies in place by the time we reach a certain point in our lives, but how many of us think through those endless clauses and sub clauses of the unconscious?

I think it's time to do some internal admin.

Running

These posts are bringing me great comfort at the moment. It won't last - how can it? I'll run out of things to ponder eventually - and my interests are far from those that reflect expertise in anything but living.

And loving 

And running. I love to run. 

A friend once asked if I imagine I run away from things or towards things when I need to motivate myself.  It's always towards things for me: a fabulous friend, a brilliant shop, or a rare treat.  

I'm running on empty at the moment and rather run down. Tomorrow will test our distance ability. I can't run away now....

The secret Well

Then to this earthen Bowl did I adjourn 

 My Lip the secret Well of Life to learn: 

 And Lip to Lip it murmur'd---"While you live"

"Drink!---for once dead you never shall return."

I wonder if there is a secret Well of Life here in London?  If only it were as easy as getting an earthen bowl to hold all that divine elixir.

Who would hesitate to drink?  

I wonder - would I know I was even thirsty unless I was offered a sip?  

Perhaps I think I'm drinking but I'm not.  

Or have I drunk too much and can't see straight?  

Is there more to ignite my senses and my soul?  

Or have my lips formed a secret pact behind my back...

But but but but

It just makes no sense at all.

It really doesn't!

Should I scratch my head in confusion?  Assume the worst? Or worse than that (close ears. Don't think.)?

Fusty fiddly petty prudish biased blustering gone gone gone.

I think that's pretty much it. Why not sit down and have a drink?

Nothing more appropriate. Time to reconsider motives.

Time to motivate and get moving. Time to laugh and forget about the whole goddamn thing. That's what they all do.  But really - there's nowhere to go and no escape from the prison of our thoughts.

Three stops. Three strikes. And a final run. All the way home.

Verbal Reasoning

Radio
Of the lambs

You are bright enough to figure it out.

You are articulate. You. Are a communicator.

Walk with me.

I'm going to show you a few little secrets I think you should know. Dark places. Side alleys. Hidden entries. It's not important where we look, nor really what we see.

It's the quiet recesses of the soul - those shadowy corners of the psyche, where the unknown sits by a baited trap - it craves a voice.

It might be yours. It could be all that's in your heart: your gut. It could be that your darkest thoughts and secret hopes are one and the same. You know this would likely come as a shock.

Could we have a psychic feeding frenzy tonight? If we are bold enough to think it. Bold enough to come to terms with the discrepancies of our inner desires, then we may embrace our own humanity and reach out to satisfy our dark desires without the fear of Conformity. Caution. Consequences. Inhibitory factors designed to choke us up.

Wrap them up. Hide them in the dingiest back street. And speak.  Every quiet word. You are safe. You are protected and wrapped tightly in the gaze of my eyes.

Public Enemy

These notes are published.   But they are mine!  Who are you out there - why do you read this and what do you want?

Quiet night time contemplations are quite personal. I edit and rethink each one more than may be necessary, but it is for my pleasure, sanity, and philosophical contentment.

Every sentence sorts my soul. Every sigh stirs my heart. And every impulsive thought brings me hope that each moment I have left on this earth will bring more excitement joy and happiness than the last.

Physics first: the past is a foreign country.
Take me there.
Let me relearn the language.
Let me pick the locks.
Let me understand the real nuances of the tongue.
And let me lie here
Looking.
Looking
Looking.            ........        for any sign

Loop

Home movies often lack finesse, but when they're yours they take on a world of meaning, allowing you to step back in time and experience it all again.

Can a mental movie suffice in the absence of a concrete image?

If we play and replay our visual, auditory and sensory memories on a loop will they retain a connection to the original memory - and does that matter?

Perhaps the unconscious plays editor to our memories better than we would with the best software. We can choose to accentuate those moments that may not be possible to capture in film: the adrenaline, the giddy effects of alcohol, or a moment of synchronicity when there is a sensation that everything has fallen into place.

Rewind. Repeat.

Contemplation

It's fantastic - this new view from the bridge.

I found that once beloved book - a fine surprise - but can I pick up where I left off all those years ago?  Will I read it in the same way after so much time has passed?

Now - to begin from the beginning - again - or pick up where I left off? There is a challenge in revisiting a cherished book after so long. The characters are familiar but we need to get to know them again before we move forward with the hazy details of the plot.  Or should we trust that the qualities retained in our fragile memories are sufficient to allow our brain to fill in the blanks?

I always wondered how it ended.

Chemistry Revision

It all makes sense now:

The elements can be stable or unstable.

The catalyst can be a variable.

The outcome can have multiple products.

Bonds are likely to be formed.



If only I can learn how to balance equations.

Limbo

Sometimes I think of my office as a pod of neutrality floating in a sea of black suits and striped ties.

Upon entry the outside world melts away, time slows down, and I wait.

Thoughts are mired in sticky tarry residue. My eyes tire. Sleep is a fine opponent.

He sits aloof, awake in the corner waiting for the right time to strike.

But inevitably the door swings open, letting in a surge of questions, problems, doubts, dreams, and the occasional poem too.

Sleep - distressed, defeated, and deflated - slips away unnoticed.

Hibernation

My office is a cave.

And I am the bear.

These past dark months it felt wrong to venture out. Comfort and contemplation were within the peaceful walls.

But now - there's a wriggly feeling: Time to use up those winter stores and get ready for the spring.

The air out there smells sweet.

Time warp

What happens to 20 years?
A lost memory of an idea that lurks in the alleys of Hong Kong - of cockroaches dancing to midnight traffic - and me out of the way, hiding under the covers up to my nose.  Just enough to breathe but not enough to talk.
What happens to decisions not made?
What happens to the unraveled ends of our frayed choices just waiting to get stuck in something.
I feel like I'm living out days waiting for the inevitable snag. And then the recoil.

But life has a way of compressing time and throwing fragments of past at just the right velocity to make you look back and wonder ...

Roast

Sometimes it's just nice to wait in anticipation.

There are two facets of this, I think.  The one is a certainty - a delayed gratification if you will - with the clear knowledge of the nature of the outcome and knowing there will indeed be an outcome. The other is the waiting, and taking pleasure in the ride and uncertainty: will there be a conclusion?  A fatal moment?

Waiting for the sake of waiting in either case increasingly appeals. Think about how you feel before a good meal, a chance to wear that new outfit, feedback from a job application. A first date. A first kiss.  There are times when it doesn't get better than the anticipation.  And the longer the anticipation, the more work our imaginations do to prolong and extend the depth and joy of the imagined 'what could be'.

And now. I wait for sleep. Enjoying every moment of warm cosiness bundled up under the gigantic white duvet and letting the stresses of the day recede along with my consciousness.

I can wait just like this.  For as long as sleep lets me.

Description

How would you describe yourself?  It's easy to label, categorise and make assumptions about others, but in my experience we rarely get ourselves right. Especially if we set a word limit!  Like - say- one word.
If put on the spot I would certainly err on the side of idealism - and it couldn't be accurate.  Perhaps the best solution is to avoid specific descriptives altogether and leave something to the imagination.

Curves

or

Hazmat

or

Shoe

All joking aside, pinning oneself down without resorting to cliche or delusion is difficult. I wonder sometimes if just riding instinct and treating each day as a rare and tempting treat is good enough. Is it really essential to truly know ourselves? Is it enough to see ourselves reflected in how others respond to us?  Does a critical lack of personal insight shape our core values and ultimately moral behaviours?
Or does it liberate us.
I personally suspect the latter. And I suspect that we are so continually changing that having a strong sense of who we are can be a kind of lifetime sentence. There is a real tangible joy that comes from the knowledge we can change in a heartbeat. And change for our audience.
And so I shall continue to revel in all that I am, and aim to restrain myself from condensing my world into a series of one word wonders.

Curled

Paper, hair, fries, ribbon, toes, flames, lashes.  Bodies. Curling up whilst awake - under a down duvet and around myself. Ten years ago it might have been around another. Ten years from now it might be too. But right now this feels good.
There is safety and warmth in a curl. The sensation that all the soft bits are protected and what is turned to the outside world is impermeable. Unless of course willed or willing to unfurl and expose.
But that is by choice.
And tonight, I close in on myself leaving decisions for tomorrow.

Awake

It's been years. And I have slept. But the title of this post is a dream. Of the desire to whittle down the hours of unconsciousness in order to recapture, retake, and greedily savour a few extra hours all to myself each day I live in this incredible city.  Tonight I dropped the book that I resent and despise, and took a careful look at my Brazil posts from years ago. I slept too much there too. But life is different now and I feel as if I am a different person leading an entirely different life. A more difficult life but better. Unquantifiably better.
A colleague questioned my claim to happiness recently. And it made me think.  And reconsider the elusive definition of that blissful chemical state. I believe am I ready to conclude that a definition is irrelevant if the underlying feeling exists. Tangible or no.
Ben Okri spoke a few years ago of the significance of the opening lines of the Rubaiyat. The implication that until the reader has heard the call, "Awake!", their life has been lived consciously in the haze of sleep. As I age, the significance of that one line increases until it keeps me from slumber - calling me to consciousness and urging me to get up, get out, and get on with it. Or just get away from the things that feel wrong or a waste of those hours that creep ever steadily on.
Tolerance wanes with the waking of this feeling and urgency that tiptoes in unawares. And with it, there is a release that defies description - the feeling that washes over you when you realise that nothing matters at all except what you think and feel and love and want. And that it's about time things moved in that direction. With a modicum of care, affection, and warmth of course. But enough of putting yourself last - or putting others always first - an awakening indeed.