An earlier world

There was a time
there is always a time
when you were happy

And you see it clearer
brighter
louder
with every passing day
that drifts
clean
away

It takes on the form
the mythic scope
of a utopia

And you would give anything
to get back there
to get back
to a life
that life
that vibrant fucking life

But you can’t go back there
because it never existed
and when you were there
it was another
earlier
world
that you wanted

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Notes:

1. Written on September 27th, 2018
2. This is a original version of this
3. Which I’ve decided I like better now
4. A week or so later

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An Escape

[If some of the text is hard to read please either click on a particular image to enlarge it, or click on the title page to see the entire thing all enlargened together]



















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Notes:

1. This was written on and off between July 2014 and February 2017
2. I’m not sure why it took so long

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An earlier world

There was a time – there is always a time – when you were happy. You can see it now. And you see it clearer with every passing day, this moment, this time, this place, while everything around you now that drifts away. It takes on the form, the mythic scope, of a utopia.

You would give anything to get back there, to get back to a life, that life, that vibrant fucking life you had.

But you can’t go back there

because it never existed.

__________

Notes:

1. Written on September 27th, 2018

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The Colour Of Light Towards The End Of The Day

Everyone liked the colour of the light at the end of the day. They agreed it was the best colour of light possible, better even than the corresponding light at the beginning of the day, which you would have thought would be exactly the same, but wasn’t somehow, they all agreed.

Maybe eyes work differently at different hours, someone said, and someone else said maybe brains do, and they all laughed, but then fell silent when they thought about it for a bit and realised it was probably true, and then someone said “Well, who can say”, which is what someone always said, at some point, whenever they were talking.

What we can say, if we can say anything, is that the colour of the light towards the end of the day is, for whatever unknown reason, better than the colour of light at the beginning of the day, and also that the colour of light at the end of the day in summer is better than the colour of light at the end of the day in winter, which might be to do with differences in the amount of moisture in the air at different times of year, or to do with the different length of time the sun is near the horizon, or the angle it approaches it at, or a million other reasons that are certainly quite plausible.

Or maybe eyes work differently in the cold. Or brains.

Who can say etc etc

What we can say, quite clearly, is that the colour of light at the end of the day in autumn is terrible because all the fields have been set on fire and our smoke-filled eyes don’t work at all and all we have are tears.

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Notes:

1. Written on July 20th, 2016

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The Silent Sky

This is the one thing I really, properly, remember from when I was a child. It’s not very interesting, it’s not even really a single memory — more likely it is a set of memories, overlaid on top of each other like the layers of paint built up over the years on our living room walls, on the window frames through which I so often used to look outside — but it’s so clear and total, a visceral genuine thing, in which I can see and feel everything in an incredibly solid way, rather than just in the abstract, rather than just as a story I’ve told over and over again until all I have left are the words of it.

Because of this I often wonder whether it is genuine at all.

When I was about five my bed was put in the living room for a while, at the front of the house where it loomed up near the pavement and looked out over the road. I’d broken my ankle falling off a wall, and my mother didn’t want me to have to hobble up and down the stairs.

Because of the injury I didn’t have to go to school, although as I’d only just started I didn’t really appreciate this fact in the way I would have done had I been older. In the mornings I’d be left in bed while my brothers and sisters would get ready for school (although my mother would still come in and open the curtains like she always did in her sweep of the house), and I’d lay there listening to them all getting ready, listen to the bickering, the radios and tape-players going on and off in their rooms, listen to them leaving, listen to them and all the other kids on the street talking to each other as they walked past my window.

It was sunny. It was always sunny.

(It was – it must have been – October. It was not always sunny.)

It was sunny. My bed was shoved up tight against the radiator by the window, and I’d lay there, bathed in heat from the sun shining in through the window and from the radiator heating its way through the quilt and the sheets. I’d lay there on my back, below the level of the window, looking up at this odd angle at the sky and the birds and the branches of next door’s tree, listening to the disembodied voices of all the other children fading away as they passed through our street, their dying laughter, their ever more distant shouts.

And then the silence. Inside the house and out.

Every day, I had this fifteen or twenty minute gap, this space of my own, before my mother got back from walking my brother to school, before she got me up and got me cleaned and dressed and fed.

These fifteen minutes where I’d be left all alone. Completely alone. Listening to the silence of the house, the silence of the street. Looking up at nothing, at the pale and silent sky.

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Notes:

1. Written on 27th April, 2015

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