All Three of Me

Time is limited.  There isn’t much left of it, he said. Why then, at forty-nine has my life as myself only just started? And will the first year of my new beginning last until the end of time? Or, in the stretching, will it thin out – in the middle – with neither of the…

2: MOT

  The Dacia’s almost made it. It’s stalled and choked its way through another year, and is now  being put through its paces by Chilton’s most-trusty Treadfirst engineer. I’m hoping it will pass. If my Dacia can pass muster, then I can make it too. For although I’ve just signed on the dotted line for…

Back and Out

  Boxed in. Your letters, your handiwork, your loving endearments, underlined with rage, with jealousy and possession. Sent to me, not to be uplifted, not to sit proud – up there on my shelf. Not that. Sent, instead, with intention; the intention to download, to crush, to weigh me down, to hold me in servitude…

Pointlessness

Image courtesy of Pixabay.com Days escalate towards my end. At the end, will I remember me? Is there a point? Am I less or more than my end? When did I start? Will my end be like my start? Forgotten? Will I be less than the point of me? Is less more? A start? Can…