Bastard Universe.
When acquaintances hear that K and I have been on the other side of the planet from each other for seven months, they all seem to have the same reaction. Their mouths turn down at one corner and their eyes and foreheads conspire to make the sort of expression a parent wears when their child bawls that they've broken their favourite toy. Understanding, sympathetic and mildly condescending. "Oh," they say. "Poor you. That must be hard."
...Hard.
Hard?
Algebra is hard.
A spelling test is hard.
This isn't hard - this is bloody hell.
It's low-grade misery that gangs up and mugs you from dark corners. It's your life being held to ransom. It's the uncertainty of when you'll get it back and fear that you never will.
And I feel cross and wretched and sorry for myself - not to mention irritated by people's pointless platitudes.
And then today I hear that Steve (a nice bloke who's been painting the Oast and doing odd repairs) was taken to hospital on thursday because part of his brain basically exploded. He has about a 4% chance of recovery.
After that, I think, 'Shut up neurons and stop sodding whining all the time.'
Not to mention, 'Dear Universe - how come a lot of the time you're so bloody awful?'
...Hard.
Hard?
Algebra is hard.
A spelling test is hard.
This isn't hard - this is bloody hell.
It's low-grade misery that gangs up and mugs you from dark corners. It's your life being held to ransom. It's the uncertainty of when you'll get it back and fear that you never will.
And I feel cross and wretched and sorry for myself - not to mention irritated by people's pointless platitudes.
And then today I hear that Steve (a nice bloke who's been painting the Oast and doing odd repairs) was taken to hospital on thursday because part of his brain basically exploded. He has about a 4% chance of recovery.
After that, I think, 'Shut up neurons and stop sodding whining all the time.'
Not to mention, 'Dear Universe - how come a lot of the time you're so bloody awful?'