You used to get tired of me hiding away in my study all the time.  I was continuously searching for the right phrase, the right rhyme in which to sum you up. You regarded it as my ‘impossible mission’ with a heavy sigh only you could do best. A love of words is something incomprehensible to those who have not experienced it; like explaining sight to a blind man. It is like a artist explaining his inspiration to a deaf man. Near impossible and not worth trying. So I kept quiet, and carried on, hoping one day I’d find the right words to make you understand, to make you see the world as I did.

In the end I stopped searching, as you simultaneously gave up on me and went out in the world to pursue things; as you relentlessly told me I should be doing, instead of writing about it. I never understood your contempt for my pen, you often acted as if I was a child. I guess you were right; some things can’t be captured on the page. Some things exist best in the imagination, or in the moment; captured behind a stranger’s eyes or etched in memory.

It’s been 10 years and I still write about you. I don’t suppose you know.


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