Chrisish, age 40, London, UK

It’s Friday, 8.05pm. On the tube. If it behooves me to write the minutiae of life at the moment, then so be it. From these small, seemingly inconsequential words shall be born a new future, new hope, better days. If, in time, they add to the structure of what may be, then so be it. For sure, they cannot detract. It seems an out is required, exits are needed and I must try and provide them howsoever they can be arranged, for I cannot live with continual thoughts pressing in on my head, squeezing away, insistent, demanding, demanding, demanding attention, threatening to explode like a tumour or a cancer dare I to ignore them. Small thought, big thoughts, malignant thoughts and pacifist thoughts, benign and cheery, wicked and wild and self-destructive. Today, recently, everything is demanding head room. Today, I struggle to hold on to myself as if I were a balloon in the wind and needed much anchoring in order to not float away on evil winds that promise me a big fat nothing. I seek remedies, answers, maybe even rescue. Some parts of me are so small, so small and indecisive. And frightened, too, I muse. And I am late , and does it matter. She, too, is bound to be late. But I wish the train would move. And oh, I’ve been despairing, and oh! I’ve been hounded, and oh, I do not know where is my safety. I do not seem to have the safety nets of others. I do not seem to have made the same provision as others. Is this my folly or merely my trust in the universe? I couldn’t tell you right at the moment, for I know nothing for sure, only that I must write, and I must sing and I must look upon beauty and know the sanctity of emotional states and art that arises from that. I’m going to see Barb, in “Girl Talk” at Pizza on the Park. Bye.