what about me? I hate waiting...

My needs ploughed under
dark soil so yours can grow, forced
to my fallow time.

Morning

The sound of the radio hauled me into the present, the inane chatter dances along the borderline between bearable and irritiating as always, and as always I think about retuning it but don't, the well worn dialogue of my internal debate seeping through my conciousness.
Waking up knowing I haven't written anything for 4 days, recoiling from the derisive voice telling me I've letting people down again, no surprise there; recoiling from waking up as me.
Perhaps the radio is part of the problem, I wake up with other peoples words in my head, song lyrics being particularly pervasive, today I will find it difficult to forget "I'm safe, up high, nothing can stop me, so why do I feel this party's over?"  But every day, more words, more phrases, not just songs but fragments of speech, words I have read or written or thought.  They jump into my head and whirl around, dropping some bits and connecting to others, and how then do I tell if it is my voice speaking when they come out?
Small wonder then that I trust the only distinct voice I know, the one that tells me to forget about trying, it won't change anything, just turn over and go back to sleep.

Go with the flow

During the day, his phone had buzzed, people had come to his desk or caught his arm in passing and murmured "So sorry," or similar as they cancelled coming to the arranged get-together for that evening; the least believable a text saying "Had a prior appointment". 
"Yeah, that you somehow managed to arrange since last week when you said you were free," he sneered to himself.
So that evening, he went out in the frosting dark by himself, no-one to meet, simply to see what might happen on an evening alone in familiar surroundings made unfamiliar by the visitors to the town; both the revellers there for the night only, and those of the travelling fair, there for the duration of the festivities.
The braziers burnt, as did the cookfires for the roasting meats and the bakers ovens; rich wholesome smells wafted, released into the night air; and alongside that the smell of spirits and wine seemed less potent and so he drank more; the liquids both warming and disorientating.
Not that that could excuse what followed, when standing by the spitting coals he'd caught the eye of a woman with twisting red hair, her form shrouded by what looked like a grey hooded cloak; he'd smiled at her and somehow she'd smiled back; somehow they'd separated from the crowd and he'd taken her to a quieter spot under the trees; pressed her against him...
Cold now, when he awoke, or at least when his brain foggily started thinking again, there was no-one to be seen; and his clothes were in disarray; but checking his pockets he realised that each of them had conned the other, his wallet containing a few notes and coins was missing, but in his fist he grasped her purse.

Lonely

Today, when fresh out of the shower, bundled in a charcoal grey towel, I checked my e-mail account, and he had replied to me. Thoughts of coffee chased out of my head, I sat down at the desk and clicked to read what he'd written to me. My hair, hastily rubbed, stuck up around my head, and I felt a drop of water run around the side of my neck, across my collar bone and into the top of the towel.

It was the usual blah blah, work ok, family life ok, (he knew this was a topic to keep away from, but always he told me it was ok so that I would not get my hopes up again) Blah. Then the final sentence...

"I don't know alot about depression but I know one of the main causes is loneliness. Perhaps being at home with friends and family soon will help! I hope so."

The initial reaction one of anger, bitterness.
Too fucking right you know nothing about it, mate, to come out with such a cliché!
Fucking guilt talking, of course I'm lonely, you fucking left me.
You went back to your boring wife who you don't talk to, who you'd told me you couldn't talk to, not like you could talk to me; and all because you want to make things "work".

And now you won't talk to me like you used to anymore; when we used to spend everyday texting, mailing, messaging each other for months. I had long ago thrown caution to the winds and shared every thought with you, and stupidly I assumed you had done the same. But now I keep thinking, the realisation that I was just a tiny corner of your life,turning over and over in my head. That I was something to fill up the dull hours while at work, and in the odd moments when at home alone, when you could text to tell me what you were thinking of. And no matter what the content, the fact of the text itself made me smile, that you were thinking about me to reach across the miles and tell me something.

And after you made that choice (again, how did I not notice each time you chose duty, monotony, conformance over me?); after the choice and after an age of drawn out goodbyes, after another "final" further decision to live up to that choice; then all the focus and interest and communication between us was withdrawn and you say I'm lonely!

Fucking Brain of Britain, how long did it take you to work that out?

The anger burns in me, corrosive, white hot channels through passive flesh; anger at you for stating the bleeding obvious; and scalding anger at myself as I ask "How did it take me so long to get to this point?"