I’ve been reading Kierkegaard. Well, dipping my toe, really. I am surprised at how accessible it is. He feels familiar, kin even. It’s for the review. Kierkegaard and Beowulf. I have to start somewhere, find my bearings. My way in. I am less fearful. Other things assail me. I was stupid. I cried over my stupidity. What a boob. What a waste of money. It shames me. But it’s the machines, they do what I don’t expect them to do. I just need to breathe, I know that. Just breathe. I dreamt of a lover. The sex was exquisite but he was married. I knew this. I knew it would go nowhere but just to be with him, near him. It was intense and yet I was detached. A new phenomenon for me.

This is a short one. A hello. The language is beautiful. I like it on my tongue but the rest, the architecture of poetry I do not understand. Does it matter? I only need to say, to write, what I think. It’s a great pulling up this work. Up by my boot straps. I have no courage. I have no strength, just a willingness to try.

I missed the Prom this morning, the rain was relentless and the wind. I needed the cover of my brolly. So I went where there was no wind. I walked down side streets and saw no one.

Off to the photographer. Another piece finished. I’ve tried something new. It makes me edgy, will it work?

They’re farmers, she said. And they’ve been up to the North of Norway. What’s the name of the wandering people up there? The Sami, I said. Yes, that’s it. I liked them. Open and friendly. One had such a brown face. I’ve got a degree in bullshit, he said, grinning. And it was, from ear to ear. Another told us of her fall from the scaffolding. I’ve five stitches in my head. The only problem is that every sounds to me like they’ve inhaled helium. Bless her. She’s a favourite. Alive and warm.

Soon. It’ll be longer next time. x

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.