And as I sit here. Wearing the red lipstick, that you willingly smeared across your face, as you kissed me deep and full, amongst the cotton blooms floating dustily, cinematically about ourweus in that shitty carpark in June. I’m reminded of the pigeons…I may be the writer dearest one but you re-wrote your heart better than any of my pathetic attempts at fictional romantic tragedies. I smoke my spliff and you sweet lover just inhale your self-rolled lies…we both are seeking escape; both have similar injuries, but our methods and routes couldn’t be more in opposition.

I’ll keep the pigeon rings you randomly, meaninglessly (apparently) gave to me and you, my love, can keep the memory of what you lost. The memory of that time you almost made it over the mountain of your fears but turned back because, the wound that fear left as it tore into your flesh with its pinions began to throb, and you told yourself that you were not as brave as you first thought.

There is nothing more tragic than the image of a fully grown woman, who really should know better, has learnt through so many traumas greater than this one, crying alone into a bottle of wine because her heart aches. Who knows full well that it will pass, this bitter sting whenever she is somehow reminded of one of the good times. That it will become less ardent, as the memory becomes distant, like the last bursts of heat and light of summer, like just how deep that first cut sank. Winter will be here soon though and these feelings will inevitably slip into inertia and freeze into the depths of wordlessness and bitter regret.

Words… the intimate enemy of memory. Memory; that which exists in the form of feelings and instincts, not formalised language, they are only codified once an attempt is made to put those feelings and instincts into the cold, harsh and clinical realm of words… of order and manmade organised communication. Of manmade lies, because contrived expression always has to cross the river of diplomacy and self-preservation as it journeys from heart to mouth. Words; the intimate enemy of memory and truth.

I may be a living tragedy, yes, but I know in my heart that I’m a beautiful mess… and no, not beautiful in the sense of golden ratio perfect faces or 9 out of 10 cat owners prefer curvy over skinny or pert over saggy or silence over action. No. The kind of beautiful that is at the heart of chaos… the disorganised, unpredictable, random and deeply flawed beauty that is nature… that is growth and survival, despite the storm.

We human beings have an odd relationship with truth. Not only the level of honesty we deal in amidst relations with others but also how capable we are of being honest with ourselves. If I’m honest, for example, I would admit that part of this pain I feel right now is my reluctance to give up on my (perhaps) childish notions of love, that I will have to if I force myself to let go of you. Perhaps love is what so many others have been trying to tell me, for years. An action, not simply a feeling. That it’s feeling loved as much as feeling love. That it should uplift, rather than oppress me. That it should serve, rather than merely observe me. Whereas none of the above have been present in any of my experiences of falling in love …proper love. I say proper because yes, I make a distinction. There are the ones I think I love, until I see a side I don’t like and cease to feel it… and then there are the ones who give me good reason to run a mile, with the sheer volume of danger in that undesirable side, but I don’t for some reason, because I can’t. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t fall for every guy that treats me wrong. I have kicked many dogs to the curb way before they reached the other side of the road. But some men, less than a handful, have weighed so heavily upon my soul that my self-control (self-possession), feels dissolved against the kabuki of their light. I am literally a moth to a flame, eager to return to the ashes from whence I came.

For me, love is about submission, and no, not in the sense of allowing yourself to be mistreated through a lack of self-love but more a sense of implicit trust that you will be understood and cared for. That you will be loved and treated with care. Love is about looking beyond beauty or ugliness and only seeing beauty. Only seeing the pure light of heart & soul, not the dirty, matted, blood encrusted cracks from which it spills. Love is about connecting beyond words and what cultural reference points you might have in common, it’s about seeing beyond the glaring impossibility and seeing that, no, scratch that, feeling that faint glimmer of hope and turning it into potential. Isn’t this how all the greatest scientific discoveries were made? By chance and sheer bloody mindedness?

And what is love for you I wonder? I’m not sure I have any true, clear understanding of that. Do any of us ever fully understand how another human being experiences love? Perhaps not… pure gnossienne. But if ever there was a template case for not having (full) access to the realm of experience of another person’s heart, then you are it. Maybe because you have such little understanding of it yourself. Perhaps not everything can be codified and made real and measurable with organised communication. Perhaps logic has no place in the realm of love and perhaps it takes bravery to dispense with logic and just allow yourself to feel. You are not a lioness, nor indeed a lion, this much is evident but you are beautiful and mighty in your own way. And I respect that. I love that and very much wanted to understand that…why you pushed me away, when and how you did, this time around, makes sense to me logically but I still can’t help but think, silly, silly boy.

As this bottle of cheap (ish, cos I don’t drink shit) red wine comes to a close, I feel a need to shut off my thoughts and put the pen down. Controlling my thoughts is the best way for me to attempt to manage my feelings I suppose.

Beware of your thoughts, for they become words…Beware of your words, for they become actions. Beware of your actions, for they become habits. Beware of your habits, for they become your character. Beware of your character, for it becomes your destiny…

Yes, these words are ringing in my head for us both, cos we’re both edging further and further into destiny sweetheart… separate ones, yes, but also, more importantly perhaps, not fulfilling ones. I feel unbearably sad for us both but this bottle of wine is almost finished and I gave myself the length of time it took to drink it to think about you. And I must stick, religiously, to my boundaries, or else I fear I might be lost… forever.