Wake up earlier than the birds and begin to think straight away. Write inside your head. Press up so close to Peter that your breasts are against his back, that your cheek is at his shoulder. Smell his skin. It is warm and brown and smells of soap and him. Wrap a thigh around his leg and drape your arm over his waist. Feel his cock harden in his sleep. Imagine what it would be like to give yourself fully. To abandon it all inside the height of climax. Imagine not being an outsider looking in on your life. How sweet that would be. Wonder if you are authentic. Wonder if authenticity is all that. Listen to the birds begin their chatter in the still of the morning. Know that today will be a hot day. Make a funny concoction of ginger and apple and kale and laugh at yourself for being a kook. Brew tea. Hang out the washing in Peters old shirt and flip flops and get wet toes and marvel at the grow green thrust of the garden . Its wildness, the bashed red peonies bowed by the rain , their heads kicked in. The eager larkspur waiting for July, the pink shock of the hawthorn , the mayhem of it all. Three pairs of jeans, T shirts, yoga pants, odd socks. Watch the washing line spring up and feel the dew drips on your face, hear the birds sing and sing. Watch the rooks clamour to leave. They leave every morning, they come back every night. Know that as long as you live they will always do that. They are as constant as the sun, as loyal as the moon.
Texts from young people. A party in a field. Are you coming? A to and fro of slightly ironic texts on the subject of fancy dress. They are giddy for this day . Don’t tell Lisa it’s fancy dress because she hates it. A text from a friend with only twenty five years inside of him. He is tall and handsome and he knows it and yet he does not realise its significance, it’s insignificance, he knows nothing and he knows it all. The beauty of youth with its built in feeling of immortality. Wonder if a fear of death makes us less free. Wonder if the fear of death was sucked from my mothers breast, breathed in alongside my fathers melancholic sighs. If their early disillusionment seeped into my only child pores. Or if my solitude set me apart from the day off. A ship all at sea from the word go. A party in a field. A field under God skies where the moors make us all secondary. There will be a fire, there is always a fire. Wonder why they love me. Perhaps because they know I have seen it before but I will still play their game. Be curious. Enjoy myself even when I am not enjoying myself. Dance for hours between the fairy lights and the hay bales and the laughter, forget yourself and shine. Walk home at a time when night presses into not quite woken, reluctant day, a no-mans land of nothing really happening but where anything could be possible. How to get home on a Saturday night.
Remember not to read anything into or behind this. This is it. This is all that I have, this is all that I am.