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Location: Dublin, Republic of, Ireland

Thursday, 1 March 2007

Continued from yesterday

It was on starting to write today that I cried a little.

The wound is still fresh.

Never discount the unexpected. Unpredictability may press rudely at your doorbell, cradling in its arms, a dart or a rose.

There is no a messenger beforehand.

What I mean is, I started to write, not my play but my novel, finding comfort in my character, and that was when once more I remembered him.

I stopped and started and stopped and started and twiddled about with my marker.

My actions were watchful, thoughtful, slow and finally drew to a halt. My heart was really quite safe. I weighed them cautiously and could negotiate with my own emotions through a gentle science.

I settled for future possibilities.

Who knows what tomorrow would bring. I hesitated in this way for a long time, gazing into the distance.

But then finally, I wrote.

I wrote a 1000 words in a short spell and I thought, I'll be alright if I masquerade the tight-lipped nagging mother, lost in her chores.

Yet again and yet once more.

Such is the strange plight of a survivor. We swim about content in an ocean of mystery and danger. I admit, silence is sometimes nasty for the memory.

In a strange way, my writing helps hold it all together.

But before you go... I adored him. Yes, I did.

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