Party Hat

Sometimes it all seems so fragile, so impermanent. Do you ever feel that? A shifting. Nothing is safe, nothing is solid.

The wind was strong as I walked. No, not strong, just gusty. The students have mostly gone. A few stragglers that’s all. Three men were in the shelter. A mess of duvets and sleeping bags around them. One of them seemed to be wearing a  party hat, a white plastic glittery affair. They were wide awake, the one in the hat standing, then lurching.

An oystercatcher called from what seemed like across the sea. I couldn’t see the lights of Aberdovey.

I just don’t know if I’m good enough. At any thing. Shall I try this, or that? When will there be peace to it all? I walk past The Pelican Bakery hoping for a smell of bread, something comforting. I often fantasise about being a baker. I want something real to do, something with a beginning and an end. Something that is tangible, true and of use. I’d like the solitude, I think, and the sensations. And the hours. And the warmth, particularly in the winter.

Off soon. I will have to wake him. Morning was coming up over the sea. That white line of hope.

A bientot. x

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.