Maybe I just don’t know how to be happy. How to be happy. I think it is an art. Perhaps we have it as babies, newborns, who knows. And perhaps some of us un-learn it. Or just cannot allow it. I think about dark things more than light. That is for certain. I thought of her and her last night. One in a prison refusing food and another still ill, not herself. Does this happiness thing really matter? Is that our only reason to be here, to get happy? He advocates medication, believes in it, swears by it. I am sceptical, scared of handing myself, my mind and my body over. I want to find my own way to the other side, if there is one.

The dead blackbird was still there on the side of the road on the approach to the little hill. It is still in one piece. A perfect form but lifeless.

The moon was almost full as I walked. And the morning just breaking. Two girls were wrestling in the sand pit, another sat on the giant deckchair egging them on. Pier Pressure was busy. A line of white taxi-cabs waited outside. The salty stink of fried chicken hung in the air. There was no wind.

I brought him down, I could see that. He wants to help, to make it better.

He didn’t give her the job. He said it was because she wore too much green eyeshadow. Times have changed. Might she have lived now? I understand his obsession, I am somewhat the same.  I think about them all, all my grandparents, parents and ever further back. They’ve all had their part to play in this life of mine. She came down so low from all those prospects. And she did, and she. One can only feel sorry. Always.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.