What if five years into the future, it’s a warmer day in January and my heart is still beating and I’m breathing the same air, placing my feet on the same ground I’ve walked so many times before?
The end of the world is that bit closer and I’m far too old for all the first times but I still haven’t done any of the things I was meant to do when I was ten years younger.
I’m twenty-nine, nearly three whole decades old and nothing to show for it, bar the degree shut up in the cupboard where I keep my obsolete jumpers and the four hundred pages of poetry that reads like one long suicide note that I couldn’t figure out how to end.
Perhaps there’s monotony; perhaps there’s pain and work; perhaps things are simply worse; I’ve gone easy sliding back into the disaster zone: I’ve seen it happen all the time.
And so what if I don’t die and things go right?
I’m a real grown up person with a mind that’s ordered and I do what I love and I’ve found someone to love and we’ve somehow saved the world and I’m happy, happy, happy.
It's a limp, ill-defined notion: I cannot fill in the detail or add in the words between the lines. By which I mean it’s not real. It’s not real, it’s not real.
So what if I don’t die and I’ve pinned all my hopes on it and all I’m left with is the bland joy of spotting the egret or the kingfisher when I’m out on my walks or the bland peace of sometimes visiting the island if only for the sake of recalling the days when other futures still seemed possible?
sorry for not posting in many years; still here writing all the sad poems