standing on the street of old sorrows

The thing about grief is
It knows what I did and
It knows what I did not say
It sentenced me to a long long life of excavating
Things my little head can not yet understand
But I patched it all together with string and rubber bands...

("The Thing About Grief Is" by Clare Bowditch)

I wear my grief like a trench coat in the summer. Heavy, tiresome, unnecessary - perhaps a supplement for something else, I don't know.

I thought I shed it six nights ago, washed away with the tears of understanding; a 'thank you' for your lessons and a release of all that wasn't, that couldn't be now. Cruelly, returned to me in a dream - it robbed me of precious sleep and sound mind at 3.46am. Bastard. An unshakable curse.

The local newspaper astrology section rates this, a five star day for me. Five stars my arse.

SB xx