I used to write. I used to do it all the time. I’d sit down and conjure up just page after page after page of you, for you, and through you. I wrote them all — poems, stories, plays. I bet I can still find them if I searched long…

the nights are wild and long and the sunsets are deep coloured and mesmerising I know of passion and of carpe diem, I know of living in the now and living free, no guilt, no pain, no face, no number. I know of regret and I know of bad decisions…

Let’s see if you can still do it. If you remember how you do it. — Your fingers play, the move is there — 1–2–3, 1–2–3, like a dance, the steps all fall into place. Then the thoughts creep in. What if you don’t have it in you anymore? What if you gave all that you were? What if that was it, the brilliance of it…

Enclosed were the four walls and trapped I felt. Day after day, night after night, I just saw the reflection of life through the double-glazed windows. Life was happening outside of me, while I was locked up in a prison of my own making. The mirror was not reflecting, but…

96 entries, 1,492,490 words. — I kept a journal for 48 days, with 96 entries — I wrote 1,492,490 words. Then I re-read the whole thing. And I wrote about it because: a) One year from now I won’t remember a thing. b) This is how I process things. c) I just felt like it. …

And I wanted to call you. And I picked up the phone. — If LOVE is a beautiful child, then who is Grief? Maybe it’s the child after they grew up — after they became a boring one, bitter and sorrowful, reeking of unfulfilled dreams & wasted potential. You rooted for the Child. Let him get close to you, without thinking about the…

I’m just hoping in for a quick shower…(I say) I’m so cold, the rain got under my skin and my hair is dropping green water everywhere. I giggle seeing the pristine beddings — normally, I would think about all the sweat that pillowcase is going to absorb, but now I…

This is Real, the madman says, with a grin between his teeth — Such was a beautiful thought. Such a peaceful feeling. A very, very cool consolation prize. …only that it’s fake, isn’t it? Nothing was real. None of it will be. Never could it be. Not one piece, not…

The clock goes tick, the clock goes tock, and the day went by. Just like yesterday, the day before yesterday and the last hundred of yesterdays. It’s again one of those days in which everything feels a little off, for now he remembers everything. Again. What have I done? It’s…