Persona.

She stands next to me. A shadowed silhouette against the bright light, her face and hour-glass figure in perfect profile. The fingers of one gloved hand rest gently on the brim of her top hat; playing cards and a long peacock feather tucked into the band. The high collar of a ruffled cream blouse rests against her neck, the top buttons open to show an ornate brass key on a double chain, heavy against her skin. Black cinch, laced up at the back, with a gold pattern; a Celtic swirl that dizzies the eye and confuses the mind. A heavy Victorian-style skirt sweeps over her hips, in a cut that sits above her knees at the front, but curves down in flouncing bustles to a trailing train at the back. Lace tights lead down to brown boots, laced at the front and buffed to a shine. The only sound is the tick tick of the fob watch pinned to her waist.
She turns. Slowly. Her hand flickers through the air and a crimson rose appears in her fingers. Blue eyes soft behind the glint of her glasses. The tangled chains of her many necklaces clink as she moves. A twist of her wrist and from the point where her lace glove meets the tight cuff of her shirt, a purple ribbon slicks out and flutters through the air, the gold letters on its surface shining in the light, “… fact and fantasy.” The rise of violin music and an arc of her arm sweeps her hat from her head and she bows low, one foot elegant in front of the other. The ribbon sinks to the floor. The dark lips curve in a smile. “My dear.”

You, yours, me, mine.

With the scratch of pen on paper, blobs of ink spattering from a pointed nib, comes the inspiration of a creation and a page filled with spider-scrawlings of notes.
So you are, and she is, and the way I see it, and my thoughts were, and emotions are expressed when, and feelings matter if, and how..? Pages of pointless words that mean nothing alone, but when connected to her... or added to this... or placed in conjunction with why...
A memory results in a place. An image results in a colour. A feeling results in a food. And slowly but surely I am attempting to place on the wrinkled, crinkled page an accurate, concise image. In rhyming couplets. (How to make thing difficult.)

Maybe we won't last forever, but for now and today you are my whole and my life and the pieces that make you who you are make me who I am and however many they are, in the many, convoluted patterns they fit in, I have to choose the most important ones, the most effective ones, and the ones that will create the best picture and convey most effectively my thoughts and feelings... These are therefore the most difficult ones to put down on paper.

So the pen scratches and scrapes and skips across the paper. The spaces are filled with notes and words and abbreviations and then, slowly, slowly, are recreated and reformed into a complete creation. Give me time, for this will take time. Give me space, for space I will need. Give me your love because my love of yours is what I'm trying to convey and what I'm attempting to immortalise...

It's a shame I find this so damn hard.

Get this..!

Ohh, the sun. So many things to love!

The light! Bright, colourful and (dare I say it?) happy...
The raised levels of testosterone; the lowered sunglasses and hair flicks as the chemical love grooows.
The fake tan and the outrageous only-just-there outfits adopted by every last skinny girl out there. The sunbathing and strutting and smiling.
The topless guys playing football/frisbee in the parks. The way they constantly find ways of heading the ball in a pretty girl's direction, just for a split seconds engagement.
The uneven tan lines and patchy burns that signal too much time out in the sun.
The (often bad) music thudding out from open-top cars as they sweep by. The fact that it doesn't matter what music is playing any more, as long as it's prompting you to "do the D.A.N.C.E". The soundtrack of summer.
The screams and joy and laughter that come with the childish enjoyment of the first water fight of the year (!!)
The way you no longer have to check in your bag for an umbrella or a jumper or a scarf, in case the Spring day isn't quite as warm as you originally thought.

And the fact that even though all throughout winter the British population has been complaining of the cold and wishing for sun and warmth and summer, the minute the heat heat heat arrives, Britain asks for "Just a little bit more of a breeze"... Continue to complain that it's too hot to do anything, Britain! Meanwhile I'll get out my sunglasses and enjoy it while it's here...

S-s-s-sun.

My darling! I have abandoned you..! My creative juices have been running slow, slow, s l o o o w . . . So slow that the only creativity I have been indulging in is my doodling. And even that has not found itself up onto the blank web-page. But enough of that.

Wow, my internet is slow today as well... I blame it on the heat. That gorgeous, beautiful, saturating, soaking, sublime, (Look at that sibilance! I blame the English Bug), lovely lovely lovely, amazing, gorgeous heat. The sun has been shining all day. The heat I could never believe, not for Britain. Apparently it's going up to twenty-seven degrees tomorrow. I'm ready for it, with my sun cream and straw trilby and shorts...
Today, though, was awesome. Revision be stuffed - I spent the day lazing in the garden with a girlfriend and having a full-on water fight out front in the afternoon. What is it about the sun that brings out the childish delight in everything, and yet soaks your head with such heat that after only an hour of movement you feel like you could relax into a puddle of nothingness and stay there for the rest of the day? It's like a drug. The most natural drug around. And the only side effects are ones that come from not taking enough care ie. burns and headaches. Someone should find a way of bottling this stuff up and handing it out as a depression cure. Who needs prescription drugs with the sun on tap?

Enough of this rambling. Suffice to say...
"Birds flying high, you know how I feel. Sun in the sky, you know how I feel. Breeze drifting on by, you know how I feel. It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for me... And I'm feeling goooooood!"

Moving.

So we have until the end of January. That's the main problem about not owning your own house: At any one time your landlord/lady can kick you out. Ours is planning to renovate. The thought of moving out of my home of 15yrs plus is strange. I can't even remember the last move - my childhood memories are practically non-existant.

"Look at yourself, look in the mirror, don't you see a lie?
That you tell yourself again a thousand times.
And the truth that makes us laugh will make you cry,
You wanna die? No?"

Curses.

Don't talk to me. Sitting in the back of my head, a heavy blanket of resentment and pain and woeful selfpity leaks its bitter liquids into the creases of my eyes. A single word or a look askance: Your constant humour at my anger, your incompetence to complete the stupidest, tiniest task, your ability to enjoy yourself as I sit in shackling loathing. Learn how to lock the door behind you and tread quiet when you are near me.

Feel free to leave your clothes in my room; scattered about in crumpled piles of discarded journeys. And I will smile and reply sweetly with false love on my tongue and sour anger in the back of my throat when you return days later to find them gone and ask where they are. I cannot think as fast as you do. Your words and ability to mock are faster and harder and they bruise me. Flick at me with sarcasm or spit your resentful replies to my smug face and inside I'll smile at your stamps and shouts while my blood curdles into momentary hatred and scores lines in my skin. Ugly lines. That nonetheless screech to my reflection, "I've won!"
This time.

One day a fire will burn itself out in my heart and your inability to respect me will drop from my lips like dry, grey ashes. Fill my mouth with cool water to wash out the taste of the pointless, scorching coals. I am tired of this anger and lack of forgiveness. And yet my fists still hold tight to the ripped threads of former hurts, and still dip them in the blood of recent cuts only to brush the lines of "Remember last time?" across my arms, and still collect more and more as the weeks go flying by.

Bitter tears of anger. Clenched fists of resentment. Heavy headaches of self-loathing. Leave me to curse my way through these next few days. Because that'll help.

"We'll remain after everything's been washed away by the rain. We will stand upright as we stand today."

Don't remind me.

Visitor

Tattered wings and fragile body.
A sudden flitter-flick before
the glowing screen. Tiny-soft,
velvet grey shape slicks a shadow
across my face.

The only other living warmth
attracted to the only light
in this cold dark in this cold room
in this cold house, where everyone
else is asleep.

"Everything has a reason for it
Everyone has a story to tell
Everything has a reason for it
Everyone has a story don't they?"