Dear, dear, dear… I want to put it straight, we have endured a flippant, problem’d week of clinginess, screaming for freedom. The irony isn’t lost on me and never is (unfortunately). We really do dig our own graves and in this situation I don’t know if the metaphor is also a prophecy of real-real reality. How could I know if prophecy is welcoming reality? The futures unwritten? I did re-kindle something that should’ve been a solid predictability. A reel of film predictability, flickering close memories & old feelings. When we’re good, god we’re better then life. Life itself. It really is a meaning of life, accidentally captured in a bumped laughter & gargle of gaggles. Something overwhelming to put it simply my dearest. I told the old “hoar” that I’ve shed many tears & tears in our fabricated friendship. Fabrication in the sense of warm covers on a winter night, rather than fabrication of imagination of what could’ve happened & been. To be lucky enough to have many pure friends has the capability to teach the value of luck. I know this through realisation rather than a slumped figure around a blackjack table. Friends will always be able to wake my soul of the gambles of life. (The bastards) So the re-kindling of…Dare I say it? Soul mate is of all gambles. Of all gambles. I’m still not sure how… (Long live the queen – Frank Turner has started to play. Playindeed!)… I feel. I guess to summarise a tear tattoo would be too dry to soak a symbol of regrettable love. I just hope I can trip into a soft sea of tranquillity in this next page of long-love- lived friendship rather than see the sea turn my heart grey with aged longing. Please don’t give me longing.
Lain Kieran Sheehan