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[andrew37109]

B

B

I think she is a good thing.

A patient desire that feels best held at arms length.

Her beauty is obvious.

Her character easy to love.

And so, just like that, she exists.

A new longing that pulls my mind from ancient romantic affairs.

And though, I cannot have her, she is welcome for that.

Like a golden light in stark darkness, she is welcome.

[andrew37109]

Awake at 4am.

Laying in the dark, thoughts of the future, of myself, of my own dark desires.

Thoughts of time wasted, of hours scrolling, of years travelling, never settled.

Thoughts of friendships that have faded, of romance awaiting, of children to bear, of people who seem to have it all… that they don’t really… that I am that to someone else.

Thoughts that nothing is ever as it seems.

Thoughts that I am fit and healthy and not bound by condition, nor too much ignorance.

Thoughts of arbitrary accidents that may be dealt to myself and friends.

Thoughts of the gratitude I should have.

Thoughts of the trip I should have taken, or the choices I could have made and the man they would have led me to be.

Thoughts of the place I am, of the choices I shall face and the man I shall become.

Thoughts of aging. But those thoughts are foolish.

Thoughts of family and how I miss them.

Thoughts of my childhood dog absorbing my tears at the top of the staircase.

Thoughts of the next thing and the next and the next.

Thoughts of thoughts.

A phone screen does no good for a tired mind.

[andrew37109]

Holidays in Millport. Isle of Cumbrae.

Small memories of the place we would holiday as children. Laying here in the morning glow of waking with the ocean in my ears. A distant car door slams shut.

I remember crocodile rock. His big red tongue and bullseye eyes. The thick grassy overgrown path to the beach outside the caravan park. The tall green hedges that sheltered us in. I can still see the view from the caravan window, overlooking the sea. My brother and I would climb all over the rocks there and we would cook sausages on the beach. I would find red stones and gift them to my sunbathing mum. Then we would go poking and prodding at washed up jellyfish. The ominous underbelly of the caravan looked so mechanical and strong. I thought of it as alive, a titan on whose back we vacationed for a week. Dusty bottles of used gas, random stacks of unevenly cut warping planks and paint buckets sprayed with webs lurked beneath.

The tree outside the door I used to run around was so brown and warm to me. The grass so soft and green under my feet on hot days. All now a pleasant nostalgic blur. And a melancholic desire to relive those days.

I can hear the creak of the front step climbing inside the caravan and the smell of the colour of the sofas which transformed into beds. I remember sitting by the window doing jigsaws on rainy days, watching pellets of water racing and the magical sound on the tin roof. I remember my mum and gran making me French toast and being a fussy little germaphobe if anyone cooked it with their fingers. I remember my gran having a heyday with that one… what a little shit.

I remember going for walks with gran in town, gazing into windows at heirlooms, old phones and devices I didn’t know. Every window was single glazed and covered in sea salt. I can still feel the spray on my cheeks. Light blue paint flaked from the old window frames and the wind chilled us on Scottish summer days.

A holiday on an island by the sea.

There was a brown and red bar near the harbour where we would sit and eat soggy fish and chips. The smell of an old British pub is so unique. Cigarette smoke and vinegar. Puggies blipped and jingled and flashed. Always a sense of so many people having been there through the years. Dark wooden bars and chairs and stain glass windows. Sticky leather that burnt your thighs sliding into booths. Little numbers embedded in brass circles on the corners of overly varnished tables. Every year the ugly carpet becoming a darker shade of red. I think of it so fondly now.

There was the old walled in harbour, and the stone steps with no railing. You could walk around the boats at low tide and my brother and I would climb inside them and hunt for crabs in the surrounding rock pools. And always there was cheap machine whipped ice cream.

When a 99’er actually cost 99 pence. A flake and raspberry sauce. Yum.

We would drive or cycle around the island, which didn’t take long. Half way was Lion Rock, which truly did look like a lion stalking into the hills. I only ever made it halfway up his mane. I remember the disappointment at being too small to reach the next ledge, mum calling me to come down. On the other side of the island there was a cafe in the hill, with a stair leading down to a small golden beach inside a rocky bay. We lay there all day once. And I asked my parents for money for a hot scone. The butter and jam was so delicious. I think it was the first scone I ever had. Then I had another. And then I dropped the third in the sand. My mum said no to a fourth replacement. Oh the heartbreak…

We would walk past the old pub my grandpa had once owned, where my parents met, my dad reminiscing over a seam on the wall he had glued many moons before. To me it seemed so grey and old. It was boarded up now. And has since been demolished. But my parents would speak with love for the times they had there. The friends and random characters from that time in their lives and how the place was haunted by marching soldiers when the lights were turned off. My dad was the bar manager back then and my mum came over for a summer job. I wish I could have spent a time back then with them. I wish I could have ridden along with my dad listening to Bat out of Hell on cassette on repeat driving around the island twice. Bliss.

Not far from there was the fair. I remember high stone walls at the entry and blossoming green trees that peaked over them. Though I can’t remember the fair itself. Just the sound of dodgems and the random rains that would pepper the day, like so many in Scottish summer.

I remember more the graveyard on the walk up the hill. I was fascinated by the old stones, the names of people I’d never known. Entire life stories boiled down to fading words and overgrown weeds. It was so sad and so lovely. I never knew that feeling before. Suddenly I was aware of human mortality. And as much as it saddened me, I found it beautiful.

In later years we stayed at another park. Though the two have blurred together in memory. I remember the drives to the ferry in Largs. We had a CD in the car titled “Power Ballad Heaven”. ‘Every Rose has its thorn’ by Poison was our favourite and my Gran would sing ‘Didn’t I see you crying’ by Cheap Trick. She would say “Did’l I see you crying” which my brother and I thought was quite hilarious.

There was a day we went to a small cafe and said hello to an older woman who knew my parents from way back when. She spoke of people who had since passed on and the changes on the island in years gone by. She wore a blue lunch apron and a warm smile.

There was an arcade in the caravan park and I made friends with a boy and a girl there I think… and we got up to no good together. There was a man aptly named ‘super cop’ by my parents, who had known him in their heyday. Named such that he was always waiting to lay down the law to troublesome youths. To spoil the island mischief fun. Though I don’t actually think he was a police officer. I once told Mum and Dad a story about getting into trouble with him.

“Not today” I told them he’d said, but to what I can’t recall. But my parents laughed and that was all that mattered. They still bring it up to this day, and I haven’t the heart to tell them that little boy me fabricated the whole thing for their amusement. I can still see my dad gesturing the “wanker” sign with his hand to super cop, shaking his wrist with one leg lunged inside the caravan door. I had no idea what it meant.

There was another path from this caravan park to the highest point on the island. I remember ankle breaking rocks embedded in the path and playing hide and seek in the thorny bushes that enshrouded it, scratching my arms and legs, pushing myself deeper in, determined never to be found. When I finally emerged the game was long over and the kids were playing something else. I felt foolish but also seperate from them then. I turned up the path and followed it for what seemed like a great time, all the way to the highest point on the island. And I was alone and it was sublime. I consider this the moment my consciousness turned on. I was young but suddenly aware of a great many things. For the first time I could appreciate a view, which you simply don’t when you’re a child.

[andrew37109]

New things begin with the ending of the old. Maybe a day or a month, or a year. It is a duration that can never truly be told.

Though that ache inside can still arise, it sinks deeper now, with the knowing that the feeling I once knew would come, has indeed, finally arrived.

And with it the trust that love is not lost, but only waiting once more to be discovered, in the face of new friends and new lovers, though I’ll carry the me who was with you forever.

—

I have been a fool now in the end which makes it all the harder to bare. And mistreated another, who’s only desire is to feel in her own heart what I have said.

I need only let go of the not so distant past. And fall into her arms. To not see your face in photo albums shared between us - a reminder of what we once had. What we truly did have…

Allow me to sop a little longer.

For a moment at least I felt it and now I know it’s real. And now we can both continue with life, ready to heal and to feel, again.

I aim to be patient. To open my heart once more, though there is no rush and I must not go knocking on old loves door.

For I grow a new branch, and blossom is in sight, for both of us together, though not together, no longer holding tight.

—

But these dreams must leave me, for they ruin a good thing. And seeing your face and body in the dark only puts my insides in a spin.

So goodbye for now. I can’t say that part of me wont always hold on.

For some days I will hope. And some days I will dream, until a new love comes along and revitalises me.

Thank you for everything, my darling F.

[andrew37109]

She.

In depths of longing, my heart cries out,

For her, my thoughts twist and turn about.

In moments alone, dread fills my core,

With aching regret, I fear I've closed the door.

You, the sole witness to my soul's bare,

The one who touched it with utmost care,

In your embrace, a haven so true,

Where I could surrender, fall into you.

Jealousy rises, a storm deep within,

At the thought of others, your soul might begin

To share its secrets, to forget me in time,

As life's tapestry weaves, loves intertwine.

I fear someone else may bring you delight,

And our story fades, becoming a memory's light,

An untrodden path, left behind, untaken,

Leaving me wondering, my heart forsaken.

I'm scared, forever haunted by "what could have been,"

If I returned to you, would it be in vane?

Fear grips me tightly, love imbalanced, it seems,

Will my affection endure, or vanish like my dreams?

Yet solace arrives, in the thought we may share,

That I may be your one, the one who dares

To touch your soul, with a love untold,

A bond unbreakable, forever to hold.

I believe it so. Deeply I do. I prepare for the coming months, still in love with you.

[andrew37109]

Back again.

Back to the mud and the blood.

Back to the snears and the gear.

Back to the cold and bitter, to sharp tongued slang and homeless feet in slippers.

Bams and cans, wains and maws, complaints about petrol prices and Putin’s happy war.

Nonsense politics, leaders that fool.

Unending car crash news with dramatic tunes:

“Tonight at six” - don’t take the piss!

Agenda re-wound for the tories in bliss.

Our friends get sick or old and vacations end.

They’ll say “aye you brought the weather wae ye”…

from a hospital bed.

But oh yes, it’s good to be back.

Aye it’s good to be home…

And I suppose I can always escape back to the mountains. To the solitude, the rivers, the glens and the snow.

[andrew37109]

I miss my woman. I miss her touch.

Her soft breath caressing in the dark. I miss feeling my way inside of her while rain hits the window. I miss bickering into laughter with her.

[andrew37109]

There’s a girl out there, somewhere, doing yoga.

Touching her toes.

Last night I dreamt about her, in my old room, on the floor.

But then I forgot where we were before. Before hand stands by park stands while the sun rose.

By trees of pine and all their needles. Too many answers scattered in my mind.

The skyline brings beauty. But no comfort.

[andrew37109]

a part of a beautiful book still needing to be written :)

-12.05.2022 somewhere near a waterfall <3

I wasn’t prepared to see waterfalls and riverbeds, robins and moos covered trees. Not prepared to see it all with you. Spring hung in the air -fresh and sweet and I wasn’t thinking anymore. A couple of hours ago you were a stranger, not yet part of my story. Oh, how quickly that changed. With us it never needed getting to know one another. When we met, we already knew. When we met, we were already there. Made for each other, like rivers are made to flow through Scottish forests. Made for each other, like the wind in our hair. So easy to live and to do no more than enjoy the sensation of being glad to exist. When the sun shines like this and you smile at me like that, happiness runs through my veins like a drug. My head’s dizzy in a most wonderful way and laughter’s falling from my lips like rain on summer days. Rubberboots on your feet, through rivers you run. You conquer an islands, 2 meters in size but huge in our minds and you give me a kiss and hold me so tight. „I will always think of you now, when I return to this spot.“ Is it your warm words or your deep voice? I can’t help but smile „This is our island now“ you whisper, a kiss following. Had I known the signs I might have seen a lot earlier what a lovestory had just begun to unfold before me. Me on your back my dirty shoes around your waist you carry me back off our island. Kiss me between trees. And then do nothing for awhile. We sit and we chat bout first kisses and ours, bout grandparents and loss and I don’t question that it feels like I’ve known you forever. Rather a lost part finally found, than a new one discovered and I know, I know that you feel like that too. For nothing has ever felt this naturally beautiful.

Of course I race you up the hills after. There is nothing I can’t make a challenge out of. Back in the car we fuck and we lie blissful in silence for awhile. Maybe there’s not much to say because everything I could say is already understood. And maybe talking to you is so nice because everything you want to say, I love to hear. The radio’s on and we listen to country music and the frightened rabbits. You stop at the first restaurant you see. Being happy makes you hungry. Your hand never leaves mine, a nice waitress, a little table in a corner, a burger and curry, my head on your shoulder. How can this be so simple, I wonder? You talk to our waitress. „We only just met yesterday can you believe it?“ she can’t. I smile. „Feels like I’ve know her forever“ you say. She agrees that we look like a couple in love for a while and I steal some of your fries.

F.B.

[andrew37109]

Thank you @lovesthor and everyone who got me to 10 reblogs!

Peace in the fear of death.

If I toss and I turn I shall wake and go to the window, to taste the fog that lies low and thick, sticky with dew. And if I stare downhill and the moonlight hits just right, I can see gray eyes shine. Tantalising. Life no longer real. Like a crow I go, beckoned into the winter cold. He is seducing me now, marching me through the night, turning my toes to ice; my mind to madness, my vision to a sharpened splendour. Through the crunch I trudge. Each step colder, stiffer than the last. Until there, on the tree line, I wait.

A moment of crisp breath hangs in the silent air. All sounds of the living refrain from interrupting. All are watching. Anticipation grasps me and I shiver deeply. But I am not afraid.

I see him there, deep among the oaks - a ghost in the chill, grasping at the frozen petals of summer. Closer he comes. A smile like claws clasped tightly, biting into itself. Horrid eyes… silver ringed, empty hollows. That pallid complexion, cracked old wax. Cold turns to numb and then to warmth. I look back at the little cabin on the hill. It is dark and elegantly outlined in the moonlight. I can’t imagine ever getting back there. That would not be my path. Life would not allow it. I would not allow it. I am done. Relieved. My gaze returns to the shadows. Peace. My neck stiffens, my breath no longer shows. I know what it means. My clock ticks slower, each beat a wave of knowing. I feel the crystallising in my veins.

One more blink and I’m floating through the wood. The vicious smile is ever waiting. Ever longing. First you, my love, and now me it seems…My vision tunnels. My eyes gaze up as the clutches of the beast tighten around me and then, in silence, my eyes open to see you, smiling and beautiful and warm. Suddenly I am whole again. One final blink, falling into your eyes. My mind tilts backwards and I feel the last of myself disperse. And then, together, we are released among the stars.

[andrew37109]

F

Bored of this. Bored of us. I can’t reply when I want to and you don’t speak when you try. It’s exhausting. Every second I fathom another life is a different kind of existence, one I yearn for but will never have. You, parasitic you. Another demon to meld my mind. Another trophy un-won. Another woman I leave behind. Can I stand it, no. Can I bare losing you to another. No. I’m sick of heart and unwilling to compromise. Your love is like a drug I can’t help but take. Your body another work of art I desire. Please I say in my mind. Please to you. Pleasure and pain. Everything you bring. Lust and pressure. The kind I need to feel like a man. A man undone. A man in pain. A man bored of women around him. I desire you. Love. Lust. Need. You like no other, who gives me time and affection. I have never known it and I crave it. I did not know it but now I do. Like the water knows the sand I know it. Like the clouds know the sky I know it. Like pleasure knows pain I know it. Like you… and me… I need it. For again am I bored. Bored to death without your love.

[andrew37109]

Peace in the fear of death.

If I toss and I turn I shall wake and go to the window, to taste the fog that lies low and thick, sticky with dew. And if I stare downhill and the moonlight hits just right, I can see gray eyes shine. Tantalising. Life no longer real. Like a crow I go, beckoned into the winter cold. He is seducing me now, marching me through the night, turning my toes to ice; my mind to madness, my vision to a sharpened splendour. Through the crunch I trudge. Each step colder, stiffer than the last. Until there, on the tree line, I wait.

A moment of crisp breath hangs in the silent air. All sounds of the living refrain from interrupting. All are watching. Anticipation grasps me and I shiver deeply. But I am not afraid.

I see him there, deep among the oaks - a ghost in the chill, grasping at the frozen petals of summer. Closer he comes. A smile like claws clasped tightly, biting into itself. Horrid eyes… silver ringed, empty hollows. That pallid complexion, cracked old wax. Cold turns to numb and then to warmth. I look back at the little cabin on the hill. It is dark and elegantly outlined in the moonlight. I can’t imagine ever getting back there. That would not be my path. Life would not allow it. I would not allow it. I am done. Relieved. My gaze returns to the shadows. Peace. My neck stiffens, my breath no longer shows. I know what it means. My clock ticks slower, each beat a wave of knowing. I feel the crystallising in my veins.

One more blink and I’m floating through the wood. The vicious smile is ever waiting. Ever longing. First you, my love, and now me it seems…My vision tunnels. My eyes gaze up as the clutches of the beast tighten around me and then, in silence, my eyes open to see you, smiling and beautiful and warm. Suddenly I am whole again. One final blink, falling into your eyes. My mind tilts backwards and I feel the last of myself disperse. And then, together, we are released among the stars.

[andrew37109]

Two men in a church. Stormy night.

I approach the great wooden doors, darkened with age, bound with iron. Torrents of rain and wind whip my back like sharp icicles. Relentless. I twist the old handle and fall swiftly inside, pushing with might to seal the door once more. My exhaustion leaves me in a dizzying stupor. My clothes and hair drenched. My finger tips cold to the bone. My cheeks and nose rosey and numb. A great velvet curtain shrouds me. Touching it’s dry edges gives some warmth to my mind. Beyond, safety to the wild outside. Shelter from the storm.

Up ahead is the alter. Christ emblazoned, surrounded by stained glass murals. I take steps towards him, my hands dripping, my boots squeaking. My rudeness unavoidable. I am in the house of forgiveness I tell myself. He will understand. I sit on a pew to the left. For a moment I breathe and close my eyes. When I open them I see a man sitting in front of me to the right. In vain I fight my spastic shivers.

“A cold miserable night” he speaks without turning.

His voice is deep and rich. An accent I do not know.

“Yes” I shudder.

“Were… were you here a moment ago?” I ask.

“Yes”, he moves as if to turn and I catch the side of his face. The bench squeaks in the silence of the Church and he stops.

Time passes. I breath some more and feel heat return to my bones.

“Are you here by accident? Or have you come for comfort?” The man asks warmly.

“Both” I suppose

“How is it you come to be here?” I ask. “And so dry as you are”

I take off my jacket and can feel the man smile, though I can only see him from the side.

“I have always been here. I don’t often step into the rain, should I not have to of course. But then sometimes you have to get wet to appreciate the dry. Don’t you think?”

“Some people dance in the rain. Others just get wet. As they say. Though this time maybe I danced a little too long.”

A bolt of lightning brings momentary life to the images on the glass.

“They are beautiful” I say.

“They are… beautiful” the man replies.

“The life of a good man, do you think?” He asks, stretching his arm along the bench, gazing up at the images, at the statue of Christ.

“A dramatised account I feel, but yes. I hope a good man. If not a good man, at least an honest one.”

“Yes” says the man, his head tilting in admiration

“Yes. Do you know god?”

I can feel myself once more.

“I cannot claim to love or believe in any one god, no. But I believe in an ethical way. If a deity represents that then I see no harm in faith. As for the beliefs in miracles… that’s a little much for me.”

“Are there not such things? Are there not incredible indescribable things which happen for good in the world?”

“Yes, but equally there are as many bad things in this world. It is human responsibility for either one happening, accidental or not. Disease and death may be natural… And god does nothing to ease such things. Faith is a placebo For the almost dead. For the old and the sick. The young and strong have no need for such things. Well taught morals are as good as any god.”

“What about your father?”

“What do you know about my father?”

The man turns a little more and I see his crooked nose. He appears handsome, though slightly ragged.

“It was not medicine that saved him this past year is what I know. It was something more.”

“I see. So you are god then? You are Christ perhaps, sitting here, mysteriously, here to give me my moment with god. To convince me of your existence and power. Yes?”

“God is a human idea. I am what was here before human life. Before any life actually. If anything I am but the first inhabitant of this rock. It is true I watched you grow. But I did not make you. I am a cosmic entity you have given a name and story to understand. There was a time I wished to know people. That was my mistake and your scholars distorted that truth into religion. So I stopped with you all, less I cause any more influence, for better or worse. For what do I know of being human… I am no god. Ultimately a home is what I have been given. In your hearts and in your temples of worship. And so here I sit in the comfort of such places. The same way I sit in Mosques and monasteries. Mother Nature has a name after all. And in this way, right now, I certainly exist.”

“Suddenly I feel like I’m dreaming”

“Or perhaps you are dead”

“Am I?”

“Not yet. That time is not mine to decide. Like you say it is your responsibility. Take life or leave it behind.”

“And where will I go if I leave it now?”

The man turns. His face is half broken, burnt and grotesque. But he is not in pain. The other half remains youthful and wise.

“We would leave together. And no I am not death. For that is another human idea. I am just. Anything with a name or a story cannot be me for I am not part of this world, though I am this world.”

Moments pass and I look up to Christ, staring down from the cross.

“Life has much more in store for me I think” I say with a warm smile to the man.

“I think so too. I’ve enjoyed talking with you.”

“What now?” I ask.

A crack of lighting shakes the world and when I look down he is gone.

[andrew37109]

Airport.

In the bar painted yellow sits a man in a grey shirt. Above him are strange triangular lights. They dissipate thin angular lines on the walls.

A woman walks past. She speaks a language you do not know to some companions. She stops momentarily to put something in the bin. The wrapper falls from the overflowing can. But she does not notice. She is already three steps away. Moments later the attendant arrives on a motorised scooter which trails an even bigger trash can. He scoffs at the mess and cleans up. No one else seems to notice. Maybe no one else has noticed…

The man at the bar has made a friend. Though from this distance it could be an enemy. Conversation takes place. Pleasantries… most people gaze at their phones, their fifth limbs. I do the same. I content myself with writing this nonsense, supercilious to these other humans. Are they real? Do they think as I do about what they see around them?

I read somewhere a theory that only some people are awake to reality. Only some people are embodied characters, truly possessed by a soul. The rest are NPC’s of a sort. Perhaps the former are the artists. Perhaps that is pretentious. Or we are all awake. All one in the same. Ignorant in different realities.

Next to me sits a woman. She sits for a while not doing much. She raises her boot onto her knee, scrolling the endless streams of the online world. And there, in the gap between boot and Jean, is a tattoo. It’s a clam shell. Beautiful. Evidence that she is indeed a customised playable character. A few metres across from us two older companions sit. They share chocolates and laugh a little. An anecdote from a life I’ll never know. Even if I were to approach, to ask what they were just discussing, it would make no sense to me. Even if it was in English.

Now there is a boy, straight ahead. He is plugged in fully. Headphones glued. Laptop on knees. Fingers tapping. Maybe he is creating. Maybe he is doing what I’m doing. I think the beauty is I don’t need to know. His jumper is oddly cream coloured. For some reason that bothers me. His eyes flutter. It’s not my style I suppose…

The player lobby grows.

One man sits at a pedal powered electric port. He types while eating an apple. Points for style. In the forefront a well dressed Asian man pours over something on his device. Emails perhaps from his expression. But that could be just his face. I wonder who he is. How are the family who await his return with loving anticipation… or dread.

The grey shirted man at the yellow bar has made another friend. Maybe he is a player. Or perhaps he is a quest giver…

A pretty NPC walks past. Bright coloured jumper in a dreary airport lounge. A spark of colour in our grey non social environment. Strange. So many people. So little conversation. Not so strange… I look up.

Blue eyes. Piercing. A wonderful sign of life. A smile. Slight. Eyes dart away. We may be discovered. What a rush.

Weirder is the attendants. Players in jobs in the background of the pre game player lobby. The ones who keep the lights on and the coffees pouring. Some are friendly. Some are just getting on with it.

It’s late nights working in the lobby.

For a moment I stop. And when I do I hear a man sneeze, like the way you impersonate an elephant for a child.

Time to board.