where does this leave me then? in some siberia. some self-imposed halfway house where i get the thoughts but they don't make a damn.
and what a time for siberia. for empty letters and the barest of sentiments. what a time for this, when there is so much to describe. so much that is new and worthy of script. where words like 'balmy' and 'giddy' come up so often they almost seem contrived. it's not like they capture it anyway. it's not like in the loss of those words we ruin some moment in time, some piece of history. some part of me and my story. it's not like that but i will grieve none the less.
blogging is like dropping bread crumbs. for you and everyone else. for you and an entire world of users. it's like paving the way for those people keeping an eye out. the rangers and rogues among you. you're cluey and you're cunning and you're here.i could be in amsterdam. i could be the most heinous human on the planet but you're still here.
welcome to siberia, malcontents.
what can we trade for time? i could offer a secret but someone might read it. imagine me throwing confessions out in to the cybernetics. not a care in the world. that is far too big a thing to be doing at 3.40am on a sunday morning. that is the quest of a lifetime.
and yet i've been called to task by something. there is some instinct, some sense of duty playing games with my whirring head. i've got the outline but not the shading. no colour. all legs and no heart. but that's okay because sometimes the cadence of clicking keys can fill that space for a time. until you find yourself all heart again.
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my little nana (that's great grandmother to you), dead at 99, used to trade coupons back in england during the war. she hit the black market like a fiend and got the best deals for her family without pulling the rug out from under anyone. she was as fierce and gentle as the irish get, and sometimes i can still hear her singing me to sleep like she did when i was five.
i bet she would have traded you a secret for your time. a secret and a smile.
