The less deceived
The less deceived How well you knew the early moves. Elizabeth Bennet, Hermione Roddice; London, Oxford, Derbyshire. I’m drawn, still, stopped only by these prosaic words, too much, enough. Whether I love you enough, withstanding love against its will. Usquequo, Domine? How long? I can’t understand. She writes of 5am departures and neckscarves, the deprivation and ignorance we take for love. Politicised lust. Betrayal has destroyed so much. There seems to be a campaign to make me more like other people. I retreat to the written word, another emblem of two people being almost-honest. Reading ‘An Arundel Tomb’, he asks, wearily, is that just beautiful crap? I’m growing weary of this voice. These beautiful, useless words. I’m so trapped in this. In me. He, too, is the less deceived.
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose leaves
The way I feel today - 10 July 2004
Just seventeen - 17 March 2004
Roads to freedom - 25 February 2004
Confessions of a failed self-harmer - 25 February 2004
Manchester, united - 25 February 2004