Starting from scratch is something I am used to. People don’t half like to manipulate you into pain. Places, on the other hand, are beautiful repositories of shapes and love.
I am, by nature, an enormously sociable human being: in need of physical affection and sex.
I have had very little of either in this existence of mine; very very little indeed.
And my life now is desertifying itself powerfully.
The oases, dried up.
The raw beauty, now ugly as hell.
In fact, there are moments when living with the people I live with is a hell of terrible sorts.
I have been accused of paranoia on many occasions in my life. It makes it very difficult for me to argue that what I perceive is true.
This leaves me with no alternative: I must hide away in awful isolation. There is nothing splendid about it at all: nothing splendid in any way. But it does allow me to resist the lies that eventually people decide to tell around my person.
I fail to understand the reasons for this.
I fail – either – to understand why my happiness depends on me leaving my wife.
I fail to understand why I perceive this request of the universe.
I fail to understand the reality – even as I share the opinion – because I find it quite unjustifiable that the universe may reserve the right to suggest such an outcome; that it has the right to suggest such a finality.
And as my friends – both recent and older – irrevocably fall by the wayside, in the end I must remain the bitter and silent and quiet and unheard and awfully saddened writer who only ever wanted to touch a constant woman in the warm embrace of night-time and the hug of early morn.