Where to start, where to end, where to begin.

Looking back on my last post makes me laugh.

In retrospect, it was utterly ludicrous to suggest I could write regurlarly.

I know it would do me good. People keep telling me this. I want to write. I want to look back on the worst times in my life, and take something from it.

But the exhaustion is overwhelming. Every night, every night is too much. Anxiety-fuelled insomnia is no longer an issue. Perhaps unbelievably, I am sleeping more deeply than I ever did. The tiredness grips onto me tightly and will not leave 'til it's had it's dark, dark ways with me.

Besides, it is not that I havn't written. Many, many words have been implanted in my tired imagination, invisible ink permanently scrawled into my consciousness, messy, incomprehensible, maybe even a little bit beautifully fucked up.

I am not bottling it up. You must understand this. And even if I am, you only need take a sip from the bottle, and the taste of salty tears and bitter pain will hit you, will seize you, will strike you - cruelly - a shot of souless sorrow that seeps into your senses slowly, surrounding you with the sickening scent of stagnancy.

Okay, so forget the dramatics. Lets look at the facts.

From that very first moment, I knew she was going to die.

I am very highly perceptive - and to a degree instinctive. Not instinctive in a factual sense, as my faulty sense of logic can drive people to despair. I may not see the most obvious hints, but I see what is hidden to others. Sometimes, I just know. The knowledge is most certainly stronger than others.

I know that sometimes I will not speak to a person for weeks, yet we still share some concealed connection that enables me to tap-in to their mood. It is often a comfort, and just as often a burden. I just didn't know how deeply it ran until recently.

Regardless of the fact we suspected something was wrong, it was still a shock.

A shock I was not prepared for.

Yet in those horrible few moments - endless and numb - I could only listen to my instinct which lay buried beneathe my emotionless exterior.

'Cancer, it's no longer the death sentence it once was.' said the nurse.

How wrong I knew she was. How wrong.

Perhaps that has made it hard, and easy.

Easy in that I started the process early. The process of loss, acceptance, understanding. Whatever the process is. Sure, I am still in part going through the process. It is very real. However, anger and regret - topics that I shall no doubt bring up on here given time - have left me now.

Now is the time to make thing comfortable, to try and let the last few moments be precious, breathless in their love rather than their drawn-out emptiness. This is proving difficult, but hope will conquer fear. I do trust that, whether silly or deluded.

We will get the right moment to say goodbye. Our relationship is too important to dwindle and fizzle out to a meaningless conclusion. It has in some respects been my life - my joy and my biggest threat - yet even though it would make sense to have changed everything, I would change nothing.

So many lessons have been learnt, so many moments of beauty, so many moments of tender thought through the imposed silence. I am both very lucky, and very unlucky.

The irony doesn't leave me.

More to come soon, whilst there is still time.

In the words of someone I know....


Love and light.