I wrote this during a workshop run by Walter Mason at Ashfield Library. I was toward the tail end of a 8 month depressive episode that I have only recently come out of. I wrote it sitting next to one of my best friends in the entire world, Helen. Who kept sneaking worried glances at me.
Bed, pillow, sheets, no sleep. Sunlight, music, shuffling, no joy. Where did the sleep go? Where did the joy go? Was it ever here? I don’t know. I don’t think so. I can remember it but it’s as if it were a dream. Each moment after it’s passes it is like it is gone and never happened. Floating away like a distant memory, to be discarded with trigonometry and the year of Caesar’s death.
The light shines in my boys’ eyes, giggles errupt from my daughter’s mouth like liquid sunlight. It is warm. And now it is gone. It never happened. There has never been any yellow, just always grey. No warmth just cloistered- cold, chilling into the brain. But their is no brain. Their is no nothing. Just loss and absence.
If there is loss then there must have been something there one. Ah yes, flashes of gold and periwinkle blue. Perfect pearly teeth. And they’re gone. Buried beneath the sludge of grey.
Write or Wrong 
That familiar sludge of greyness that sucks all the beautiful colours that make up everyday and mixes them all together into something that is familiar but unwanted. Unwanted because the mixing of colour isn’t forming something else more beautiful but something ugly, something that is heavy and something that sits on your chest making it so hard to breathe, to see the colours in life.