April

I haven’t had a dark thought in months. Sometimes I wonder whether the dark figure is lonely without my darkness. At the moment I spend my days reading and writing; Derrida, Foucault and Bourdieu. It’s almost cliché.

I think the running has really helped. There is something inherently mine about it. I run by the river where the pink morning sky hangs behind the April blossom. I often think back to my teens, when I’d climb the hill to the cemetery at home, swing my legs on the bench and let the tears roll down my cheeks, wishing them to empty me of my emptiness.

For now I can’t seem to cry. No matter how much I want to. I can’t seem to indulge myself in my darkness the way I could.

I’m sure there’s a story in here somewhere, but it doesn’t quite feel ready yet.

– Saffron