So I've started writing a book...it's very a very slow process though, seeing as I'm working for some exams...but I thought I'd put the prologue up, just to see what you think of my style of writing. I'd love to finish it and publish one day, so...anyway, here it is:
“Music makes one feel so romantic – at least it always gets on one’s nerves – which is the same thing nowadays.”
Oscar Wilde.
Chapter One.
Sometimes, when it’s dark and cold inside and out, and I'm lying in bed on my own or next to someone whose name and face I can’t recall unless I turn over to look and ask them myself (this is generally the cue for them to leave), I think of you.
I think of how much I want to kick you for being such an idiot, and not understanding. And then I think of how much I miss you; how much I miss everybody; before I remember that I can’t talk to them because they’re gone, and I can’t talk to you because I can’t come back. If I came back I wouldn’t be able to leave again.
I lie there and I can hear the wind outside, hollow in the streets, and sometimes the car horns, or people pacing the roads, searching for some irrecoverable possession, partly forgotten and covered in dust, or a lonely bird cawing for its mate. Then I get up and I find a sheet of paper and a pen, and I write this down. I don’t show it to anyone because that’s not me. But I know where it is, I keep all those pieces of paper, and one day I might publish them.
I can trick myself for a few moments thinking this, then I open my eyes and know that won’t ever happen.
Some nights I imagine writing you a letter, but I can’t really do that. What would I say? It wouldn’t fit into any category, I couldn’t use a template – I’m not in love with you, I’m not apologising to you, I’m not wishing you a merry Christmas or happy birthday, or anything.
Sometimes I’m so bored it’s a relief.
And sometimes I’m scared out of my mind.
But I never think of you during the day, because that’s not me, then.
)
