What if you only get five lit points of grief or regret? One home, one child, one partner, one horse, one friend. What if the two day contents of your head get dramatised in hospital form on a Tuesday night?
I've been scaring myself with imaginary knives. Two days ago we were sitting in the cafe when he said, 'maybe you don't want to write those kind of things'. I suppose it was a candid moment, one friend asking another to be a little careful with published thoughts but I jumped straight to what wasn't happening, straight to the part where I had to choose between a friend and words.
One good Peachette taped a hospital drama for me to watch on my late return. I sat down with one of those bowls of muesli and pressed play. Unfolding in blue scrubs was the two day contents of my head. Surgeons asking each other if they had to choose between surgery and love.
I have lost track of my point because it is contradictory. My imaginary knives would cut out any part that would say do not write. I do not care if the writing is good, if it is a stupid blog post, a contractual obligation album review, a dismally worded review or one story that stacks higher than the rest of my existence. I do not believe in the death of the author, those words are all mine and I will have them. But my knives are imaginary and my feet would walk you in no other direction than towards a friend.