When I woke I started to harangue myself. I haven’t done that for a while. You know, it was the usual thing – what am I doing with my life, I’ve lost all motivation, direction, ambition etc. – that sort of thing. But this time I didn’t drown myself in it. A sensible voice came through, straightening out the strands of panic, of self-doubt, of self-loathing. One thing at a time, it said. You are waiting to see what will come. You are biding our time. Waiting. Watching the wheels go round. Your writing continues. Some paid, some personal. And you’ve just had a break, that’s all, from the personal stuff because it got so heavy, so bleak. You will return to it soon. And the professional writing does satisfy you somewhat – it is good, it is good to write of others’ work when your own is not yet formed. It is done lovingly, it is movement, it is something, it is something to send out there from this waiting room. And then there is the sewing. You have much you wish to complete, to learn, to master. And the ones that you are doing for her. Well, that is worth something. It is you way of articulating what you feel. They are acts of love. Every stitch, each one. All of them. They say what you cannot. That is worthy work. Always. And the rest, like your writing will come, slowly, but it will come. Wait. Just wait. Bide your time. Watching.

He needs others to complete him. I do not. That is the difference. And therefore, I need to be mindful of this, to support him in his panic. When it rises once more. As it will until this unknowing is over. Other people’s families, his mother, me. We all closed the circle for him.

Some people were sending off fireworks from Constitution Hill as I walked this morning. I heard the noise, the banging, their voices and as I turned I saw a green flash, like a flare. Might they rain down sparks upon me as I kick the bar? A deflated red shiny helium balloon lay in a puddle outside Pier Pressure Nightclub. The parties are over for now. The sky is clearing after all that rain. He slept OK again last night. I am glad. Grateful, even. A gentle day today. Stories and sewing and coffee.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.