Too Much

Sometimes there is too much swirling around in my head to pin down or even begin to make sense of. At the moment it is the residue of listening to Peter Curran yesterday on Telling Tales and of just having looked at Colin Davidson’s portraits of those affected by ‘The Troubles’. I don’t know what to say after reading such testimonies and seeing images of such care-worn faces. And then there were my dreams of going to the toilet in public, always in public, always on view, in a station with no cubicles and of a woman leaving behind her glasses and things and my trying to call after her. And him at breakfast being so agitated at the thought that Donald Trump might win a second term in office and not being able to read or concentrate on anything else. Look out the window, he said before he left for his walk, if you want to be cheered up. And I do and it is magnificent. The colours. The sun on the buildings facing the Prom. Warm reds, oranges and yellows. An Autumn delight. Sometimes these small things are all we have. If they indeed be small.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.