I sent a sonnet to a competition last Friday with a horrible sense of bathos. For the purpose of reassurance and chronology this was written on that same Friday and so come hell or high water I will drag myself back to positivity in the interim between… well… now and the party.
Posting the sonnet away was an anticlimax, in which the red pillar box punctuated the continuum of urban grey pavement vaulted over by a cloudy grey heaven. It just seemed LOUD without being a reprieve. Spring is trying to launch a counter-offensive but doesn’t seem to have any staying power.
I didn’t even post an SAE for notice of receipt, whatever happens, happens. Much like a one night stand, the act of writing is done, and now interactions are edited, formal, and the light of day filters in like rainwater – so you wrap everything in forgetting and get the mental equivalent of a taxi, while wearing last night’s clothes.
Your sleeve is covered in ink spots. This is the mark of your tribe. Writer.
There’s something sinister inside me now that’s starting to creep on. Birthday excitement falls into birthday reality and I very much suspect that the party will be a complete failure, no one will turn up.
I wish I had a tree-house to hide in, with a best friend. This is not a good place to be. Hopefully it’s only a funk that will be abated by pink napkins and gold balloons. Nothing short of pure theatricality will save me. I hope the party is good and my real birthday is bearable. That’s all I want. Failing that, that it’s over quickly.
~ Pola ~