I get agitated and we end up having a row. Go away, he shouts waving his hand at me. And I do so. It’s fair enough. I’m feeling horrible inside and consequently, am horrible outside. I got agitated thinking about change. I need to change. I need to make an adjustment but the prospect is so alarming. This routine of mine, however singular it is, and it is, needs to be changed. It won’t do. It just won’t do. I wake to the dark and the gloom descends. I need more light. I’m a troglodyte, I said to him yesterday, I live mostly in the dark. But how to change that? I just don’t know. I’m chasing time. I’m chasing work. I’m chasing how to be good enough. To whom, though? Myself. I’ve cast this routine, formed it from fear of this lesser life, trying to make it bigger, more expansive. And all I am is tired. To tired to think sometimes. I fantasise about sleeping. Of going to a country hotel and sleeping for a week. With everything taken care of, food, warmth, clothes. All of it. And just me yielding. I write it down every morning. I yield. I yield. But I don’t. I am rigid, that is what I am. Everything is so brittle. You won’t need to stress and strain, he told me all those years ago. No I don’t need to but I do, I make myself. It is all so unnecessary. All this discomfort is entirely unnecessary. I have so much and yet I behave as if there is nothing. Why is that? I question to understand, to get to the bottom of it. Seeking clarity. I walk to find it, in the rain, listening for the wisdom. By the time he wakes I am tight with it all. Poor love. He doesn’t know what’s hit him. We make up. We always do. There is too much love not to.

She holds my hand, grips it tight. A loving woman. I’ve wanted her to be mine so often. A tiny thing. I’m eight-five next month, she told us. I smelt of her perfume when we left her. Miss Dior, I think. I’ve got my book, she said. He was happy, loving the drive. The greens were stunning.

Today there is rain. A grey day. Wednesdays are all too often blue days for me. And yet there is much to do. We will talk about it, over tea. Can it be resolved? Can I allow myself some rest?

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.