It's slow and it's steady and if it weren't for the fact that it's been missing for the past two years, you wouldn't even notice. It's in every day that passes. Moments crawl by slowly but not so slow that you want to scream. Slow enough to savour.

You're slightly alarmed because it's routine and you never thought routine was something you'd be comfortable with. But it doesn't have to be spectacular, it doesn't have to be shot into the air with fireworks. You've had that already and it was more smoke than anything else.

It's difficult to define really and the only reason you know it is what it is, is because when you climb into bed at night and pull the sheets over your shoulder and lie on your side with an arm folded under you, you feel like ink on heavy paper. Ink on heavy paper forming patterns that won't be lost, not even when morning tiptoes round.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I can't claim to know what this is about, but it is beautifully written.