she said.

“Write anything you like.

Nothing you write will be wrong”.

She pushed the paper towards me,

Positioned the pen in my hand.


I stared at the paper, blurry-eyed.

It stared blankly back at me.

But I gripped that pen tightly.

It was real.

This moment, right now, is real.

Remember that.


I think aloud like this, because

thinking is hard these days, and –


My thoughts enter and leave consciousness,

without effort or explanation.

Other thoughts stick, and spin and swirl –

And get in the way.

Thoughts of ending, of crying.

Of dying.

How long have I been here?


I have lost so much time.

It doesn’t move like it used to, I’m sure it doesn’t.

It trips and gutters,

Freewheels or freeze frames.


I have learnt to be mindful.

To watch candle flames burn,

Then flicker and fade;

white and amber and honeycomb.

This is part of being mindful, I think –

this writing. This weaving, and forming,

And sewing the words together.

A stitch in time.

I don’t want to write.

I want someone’s eyes to meet mine;

Someone to hold me, kiss me in the evening sun;

To run their fingers through my hair.

I liked that once.


She said I am not me at the moment.

I’m not sure who I am.

She said this would end soon;

I would remember then,

Remember who I am.

I just have to hold tight,

for now.


I am holding this pen, ever so tightly.

One day, we might be on the same page again.

Maybe I can write myself there.