The zombies are calling me.
People who refer to other people as ‘they’.
‘They’re all the same’, and, ‘that’s what they want you to think’.
People who’ve given up on hope and change and hunkered down, rolling a boulder called fear into the cave doorway and frowning about how they’ll get the smoke from the fire to vent in a closed space.
I feel the temptation.
It’d be easy to sign up for the Daily Mail and play Loathe My Neighbour.
But, goddammit, I’ve no experience of easy ever feeling worth it.
Read more about #52and40 here and follow the hashtag on Twitter.
Dear Sixty Year Old Me,
Saturday was that day of sliding down a long snake after a clear climb on a few recent ladders.
You felt low afterwards. Low and relieved. Relieved because I wasn’t chosen to read out. Two hours after emailing the intro to my submission to the novel writing workshop I could see holes in it, after all. Huge holes.
Leerdammer through a telescope holes.
Here, forty eight hours later, I dare say I’ll stand up for attempt 654 of trying to birth this goddamn story.
Say you’re laughing?
What am I on about with #52and40? Find out here.