Work soul.

Worker me is; faceless, unopinionated and a neutral faux shell,
This is the personification of my living hell.
As I lose hours in pointless, irrelevant, workplace dross,
It is my soul that’s most at loss.

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Chapter 2

The lost verses.

Isaac often wondered if it was his memory failing him or the effect of breathing noxious gases from first light until dark. He closed his eyes once more and recollected. Or hallucinated. The beginning was clearer; he reminisced about the taste of fresh strawberries and the smile of his mother as she passed them across the dining room table. That day was vivid enough, more so for the peculiar behaviour of his ever previously assured father. He had returned home so hurriedly, much earlier than usual, looking as though he had aged immeasurably since breakfast. He paced and spoke in hushed tones to Isaac’s mother, who’s eyes flickered and left her face vacant. He recalled the faux smile from his mother as she caught him observing and the unexpected tight hug from his father.

Thereafter Isaac remembered watching the hasty packing and unpacking of a rucksack. The sound of the radio provided a monotone background noise. There had been major setbacks in the War in the East, lines had been broken, loyalties betrayed and more young lives lost in a far away conflict. However, the effort protected our way of life. So said the voice. Isaac was reassured by his father, who repacked the rucksack; the tools of a pleasant camping holiday were examined and debated. Knives and staple foods seemed to take precedence over anything else.

The sudden fade and cutting of the news bulletin to announce an update was surprise enough, but the stillness of his father drew Isaac’s attention more. The newsreaders tone was rushed, without pleasantries and battling against a worsening static. His fathers head turned towards the radio, as though attempting to visually decipher the words now all but lost to the universe.

“Keep calm…”

And then the voice was indeterminable.

Chapter 1

The air was breathless. Stagnant, pungent, foul. These words would be readily used to describe the stale odour that hung across the abyss of a once vibrant civilisation. Crumbling and decayed Isaac walked amongst ruined walls now partially reclaimed by a destroyed ecosystem. A slippery moss was prevalent for as far as the eye could see, seemingly one of few organic organisms capable of surviving in the remnants of a dying world.

Isaac’s aged hands grappled at walls as he slid his way back to where he called home. Home was a make shift shanty house, constructed purposefully to keep the bitter cold out when the sun fell into the smog permanently on the horizon. Indeed, you would be hard pressed to identify the silhouette as a dwelling, with strategically placed mounds of rubble, propped corrugated metal sheets and precariously balanced panels of indeterminable origin. Unorthodox it certainly was, but effective nonetheless given the circumstances.

He was now in his seventies. Life had been hard from an early age. Social unrest, poverty, war, famine and the collapse of civilisation. Isaac often reflected upon these facts that he knew to have been the case. He often pondered the causes, the reasons for why things were as they had become. Isaac always arrived at the same conclusion, which was simply that it was no longer worth worrying about. And he based this outlook on one simple, verifiable and current fact. He was the last remaining member of the human race.

Back for good.

Returned from the brink to resume once more,
Resisting the urge to breach Catholic law,
As for the first time in life One felt genuine strain,
How gainful employment can be the root of such pain.

You must look outward, avoid insular,
Or resign yourself to permanent scar.
A scar so deep, so final, the end,
But unfair on others, who would remain to tend,

To the memory, the obituary, of a dear lost friend,
Who seemed so sober, so assured to the end,
But fear not dear reader you must worry not,
The author lives on, despite the slip knot.

I’ve been neglecting you.

Even I hadn’t envisaged such stubbornness. Despite your kind words, dear readers, I haven’t so much as given my WordPress blog a second glance for over a year. There are reasons for this. Indeed, it might be prudent of me to veil them as excuses. Love, marriage, house buying and the pointless waste of ones live that is a consuming, monotonous, soul sapping job.

These are the excuses reasons.

My creativity hasn’t waned. It just lies untapped. I like to think that it’s merely dormant for fear that one day I may try to reignite my passion only to find it is no more. Picasso used to go to bed at night worrying he would wake up unable to draw. I simply wonder if I will wake up. Only when asleep do I seem to feel release at the moment. It’s a shame the illusion and fantasy that dreams afford aren’t there to save the next morning. But at the very least inspiration can be taken from ones dreamworld.

So what next for Thim? My poetry has all but ceased since my last writings and what efforts I have put into prose has been in the form of a substantive, grown up novel. A novel, despite a great many hours of slaving still feels very much in a state of infancy. But it will come and will be shared with the world.

My immediate plan for this space is to develop my novel writing openly. And as if to give myself more work i intend to publish some content of a similar format. The direction this will take will be short chapters, inspired by a Twitter culture, whereby each instalment will be succinct and to the point.

To you all, I love you. Peace.

Thim.

Cold Summer.

Cold summer, you have diverted from task,

Brisk winds, leaves ones face aghast.

For no sun shines on the forsaken isles,

As one looks out, o’er rain soaked miles.

Change.

I have neglected you all.

My writing.  My friends.  Family.  Secret admirers.

You see – in August 2010 I woke up one morning and it was overcast and grey.  Mild but dull nonetheless.  Work was fine, I had not long received a promotion.  But with promotion comes responsibility.  And I needed a break.  So I packed up my car, turned off my laptop, put the Blackberry in a drawer and drove from my driveway to the south of France.

And I haven’t looked back.  I walked on isolated beaches of which no Trip Advisor review could ever exist.  I precariously parked my car on sand dunes.  I ate fresh bread and cheese as a staple.  Cheap wine by the bottle.  And I felt super for it.

And though I wanted to share this with everyone six months ago – I have reflected that this personal adventure was pure, indescribable fun.  I could not tell you how as words fail me.  But having no objectives for any given day, no destination – it was truly liberating – and I am not one to take notice of such concepts generally.

I had been working tirelessly on a new anthology of sorts and was keen to release it.  This has been all but done for a while – but what is the rush?  But still I must apologise.  For those of you who have emailed:  Thank you for your often inquisitive words.   For those that didn’t but wondered where on earth I was – I’m sorry, I was busy doing absolutely nothing other than living.

I will continue to write – I feel a novel coming on.  But that feeling usually goes away when I make time to write it.  I have started shooting photos again – going back to my teenage published roots.  Though I am refusing to apply pressure to myself on achieving every perfect angle these days.  And the poetry will come.  Some through an anthology and I have no doubt that in time I will put fresh verse onto this blog.

And what of the future?  I am heading eastwards.  Destination unknown.