Memoir

The strength of strings

I started to learn that to write is to live, and you can’t do much of the former without the latter.

The end of the world or start of a weekend when everyone’s away.

Early morning walks from the cottage in January as the light is coming on earlier day by day.

Knowing we had it good then but not realizing how much.

Who gets a day with nothing to do? What time is this?

Days the world just settles in around you.

I remembered what it was like to leap out of bed with an eagerness for the day but that feeling was long gone.

The art is what you can’t explain about why it made you feel the way it did.

One day it will be like this for me I thought.

Winter set in like an abscess, like an infection.