Park Cemetery - Stoke Newington

Every had anybody tell you that the day was going to be a glorious one because of you? It was a high summer cut grass day and it looked so very close to this and felt smooth on my skin. I went to the cemetery for life and poetry. Fragments on cracked stone, the long gone memories of breath whispered in grief, and the unstoppable circle of generations of insects bristling in the undergrowth, around the trees unchanged. I am lingering too long in a world that truly is forever.

That I am here, woven into the fabric of organic chemistry has been remarked upon in these days of sickness and slumber.

"You are here for a reason," so many friends and those with strange love in their eyes are saying as if to urge me on further.

And so I am stranded on a most unfamiliar island, that lies in the causal ocean between the living and the dead. Trying to discover what is the reason for my survival. That I have survived has prompted me with urgency to justify my existence. And I cannot.

I wish I could articulate the tidal waves of unbridled emotion. But after the storm has been, when the tide ebbs, I am lost for words. I curl up alone for days on end uttering nothing. And if I were to try and reach out with my voice, I am broadcasting on a different frequency, it seems like all the receptors in the minds of the ones I love are out. I am so sorry - truly. For what I have done, for what I have failed to do and most importantly for what I might do or fail to do in the future.