If what I attempted was not the highest of art, then folk would see through the cracks and realise what a complete piece of shit I was. That I was a faker. That I was actually hollow of purpose, worth and talent.
Maybe the constant struggle to silence those voices is more desirable, more attainable than trying to fill the hole that otherwise would exist. Or perhaps I think too much.
Sure, that mod army jacket looked BITCHIN’ way back when, but I was no longer that person. Now it would make me look an embittered Vietnam Veteran. Those old ideas were not only ill fitting, but they were an insult to what I had become
Daily, I would get on my bike and ride through streets filled with ghosts and invisible houses, on past where the tarmac turned to dust and would find myself in fields of stone.