I wrote till the fire went out and it was do or die. He sent me a tool to build my resistance to the madness of the moment but the fire slowly died. Its so strange that this vehicle this tool that was dull became sharp enough to draw blood, to hang onto, a blade.
So I hung on through misty nights and troubled waters.
Sometimes I stare at the scars in my palms where the blade dug into flesh but I had to not let go or fall into the crevices never to be return.
The scar tissues it never hurts or burns. This rope , this bramble , this blade. Amnesia made me let go so it is the long lost friend who tolerated me but knows all my inner secrets. I am ashamed to know you now so the words refuse me or in fact I refuse to utter. I'm still one foot in the gutter.
eight long years. Mamma gone now. Just the house remains. Alone now but the tool still shines brightly and beckons my touch. My crutch and faithful friend. Will it ever end ?