A Lesson In Loss/Moving On

On the 19th September 2010, I sent a text message to my former girlfriend from opposite the Sunflowers in the National Gallery. I had not heard back from her for months, it was to be my last. In it, I explained that I was sorry if we had not been what she had wanted us to be, that she could move on without him, and without me. On the 20th September 2010 I boarded a Virgin Train at London Euston. I had no works mobile, no diary, no Manchester travel card, no 'Memoirs of A Geisha,' no empty lunchbox, no brand new faulty I-Phone still in its box, no flat keys, no wallet, no money, no train tickets home, no bag. But worst of all, the reason for my grey complexion, drawn ashen nicotine stained gauntness, the reason for my dry mouthed nausea; no note books, two to be precise, containing a running commentary of my life over the last 5 years through verse, ideas, thoughts and stories. I had committed nothing to memory. I feel as though this loss will always plague me, with each novel I read and play I see, I recognise snippets of my lost work, work for which I am responsible, and yet work that will never again exist, except in snippets for somebody else. These were the writings that caught my moments, evidenced my worth, may even have immortalised me. Whilst the violence of this loss still had me strung up by the feet, I was forced to take stock of my life, assess what was gone, and thus what I could move on from, what I had to move on from, but also what was essential to reclaim if possible, or replace if not, if only I were to move on. So, just before closing on one of those still raw nights at the Banyan Tree thereafter, having been talking to some wannabe's about love, I picked up my umbrella, zipped up my coat, left the table of shallow ships I thought I had successfully passed before, and walked out into the sheet rain and cold of the night. Two hours later, having lost my umbrella at a services and come face to face with a fox I was standing outside a window looking in. They were all up, the two best friends from London, who had always liked me, and her. She looked more radiant than ever and absence truely does make the dick grow longer. I took a deep breath, I knocked. It has taken me a long time to pick up a pen since then. I had all but completed my short stories back there in September 2010, and now I must write them all again. For a long time I was scared that I would never be able to re-create what I had lost, and so I never made any attempt. Now I know that it is not about ownership, not about recognition, my deeper sadness has been for another loss, the loss of something that made me happy, made me, me, it was to have stopped writing. It would seem that writing comes from elsewhere and the memory merely a catalyst. They say that everything happens for a reason, maybe it does. I know that I have emerged stronger in spirit, am better read, a father even, maybe now is the time to be a better writer. 12 Nov 2012