Recurring dreams

[The following post contains a dangerous amount of clichés. Readers with weak stomachs should not continue].

 

I’ve not written for a while, and I apologise to myself. I’ve been buried by a lot of nothings – stupid, really, but the nothings are the first to bite, and always stick around up to breaking point. They’re slow killers, but killers all the same, perhaps.

There’s so much noise at the moment, we’ve all heard it, and heard others talk about it, and argue about it – you see, we’ve heard it all? Every wonderfully dull particle of our lives is pretty much in sight, if we want. But we’re all becoming so bored of those lives. How many times can you follow the same routine, the same thought patterns you’ve worn through? Our identities are clogged with all the stuff, but what is the alternative?

Just remember – which memory do you want holding your hand, the last visitor at your bedside?

 

Have any more shamelessly airy advice? Share it; it’s worth keeping in mind, you know.

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