Harrison Abbott

You had to accept your flaws and your weaknesses and fess up to the hard contours of the planet and try and create content that just might influence somebody else. Even if it’s only one person, it is still worth it.

The woods lurked in the dark, awaiting the Spring … with just the faintest hint of the buds in shy green tips at the end of the branches … just the smallest of hopeful green colouring.

She rolled her eyes when you said you were upset about something; she rolled her eyes when you said you were still angry about things; she rolled your eyes when you told her what you’d read in the newspaper; she rolled her eyes if you got offended by something she said. Now you can’t see her eyes anymore. No further rolling to be done.

Dreams had been coming of late in the hours just before you got up. And they weren’t nightmares, so much as short chapters of unease. Places that you really didn’t want to go back to. Situations that had a real life correlation in your memory, that you didn’t wish to recall. But, dreams were dreams; you couldn’t do anything to stop them.

One of your old friends got in touch with you. Just to chat. You didn’t really see him in the same way as you used to. Ten years back, you thought he was totally brilliant. And there was illumination whenever he got in touch … and it just wasn’t like that anymore. But there was also no need to say that to him. No point in hurting his feelings. And it was fine just to chat about cultural things. So you sent him a link to this documentary you’d been watching. Your old mate was not perfect. But, you certainly weren’t, either. It was fine just to keep the man as a friend. Even though you knew you wouldn’t be trying to work with him again in a serious way.

It can be hard not to listen to insults. Slights, mockery, one liners that are meant to cut you … and which do, cut you inside. But you can also realise that there’s no point in recording them in any meaningful way. They are useless tallies. And they weren’t your words. You can write better material than that, any day. Nor do you have to stoop to them, with an urge to attack them back. Just keep going with your craft. And you will prevail in that realm.

I remember being at a party once in my teens. Sadly – the party was horrible. But there was one boy who was in my year. He’d been drinking and it was late at night and he was in the garden, crying. He was sobbing hysterically about some girl he was uselessly in love with. Properly chucking the tears out. And, normally, when he was sober, he acted very aggressively with people and could be a bit of a t*at. But now that I saw that he was hurting inwardly I kinda understood why he acted in such a manner most of the time. I also understood that young men and boys really take that whole love for the girl thing way too seriously and way too hard on the heart. His love for that particular girl was futile because she already had a boyfriend. And said boyfriend was somebody who this lad already hated. Which made it extra worse for him. You know that classic cliché of the ‘bad guy’ that the girl likes. Well, it was like that, except this chap had no chance of stealing her away from him. And, altogether, I just felt really crap for him. So I did my best to console him. Which didn’t seem to work because he kept sobbing like a maniac. Poor guy. I hope he’s doing better with his emotions these days. Bearing in mind, this was ages ago, when I was still a teenager, and him too. So hopefully he’s in better control these days.

The stars were silent brilliant and tiny in the late February sky and whenever you looked at their little dots they reminded you of boyhood and clean wonder.

It was their birthday and you felt a little bad because there was almost no sense of celebration in the atmosphere. Older age … getting older … those were the vibes. Not that you had any love for birthdays yourself. Always found them miserable.

Reading was about all that kept your concentration these days. Words, words – there were so many things you could do with them. And the English language was so vibrant. All of these stories, these mazes, mysteries, networks that were spun together by authors across history. This was the zeal of literature.

You don’t have to rely on apologies the way that you don’t need to cope solely with memory. Some people have hurt you so bad that you see no point in going back to them. But, you also don’t have to – head back to them. Especially since they left you behind. What you can do, instead, is head elsewhere. Create new material. Imagination is that which helps you head forward. Creation gives you power, gives you focus, movement. Of course, you can be naturally prone to low moods. Certain periods of which can be almost unbearable. But it’s through imagining and making that you can pull yourself out of such murky areas. And, once these new things are made, you realise that the past can’t strip you of them. Nothing can. You made them, and nothing can take them away.

You remember all of her little jokes and they still make your lips widen when you recall them and then your lips shorten again when you know that you’ll never hear a new joke from her again.

THE NEWS WAS ALL RAMPED UP ON A EUROPEAN ELECTION; AND HOW ILL THE PONTIFF WAS IN HOSPITAL; AND HOW OTHER LEADERS WERE MUDDLED WITH UKRAINE; SOME EXTRA BARBARIC CRIMES IN THE MIDDLE EAST; SOMETHING ABOUT ASTEROIDS AND THEIR PROBABILITY OF KILLING ALL OF US; A BODY FOUND ON A MAJOR UK MOTORWAY; A BEMUSED JUGGLE AT WHAT THE US PRESIDENT IS DOING; A HOST OF VIDEOS WITH CELEBRITIES DOING GLITZY THINGS; THE RUGBY TOURNAMENT RESULTS WITH A PIC OF THESE HUNKY MEN GRAPPLING EACH OTHER MID MOTION; A STORY ABOUT SOMEBODY KILLED ON THE STREET BY AN AMBULANCE; OH, AND OF COURSE, WHAT’S HAPPENING WITH THE MAJOR SOCCER TEAMS. All for a quick dose of international reality, rightee ho.

First time you hooked up with them they told you that they didn’t cry that often. For the following two years you lost count of how many times they cried. And the second last time you ever spoke to them, they were crying down the phone, with a watery, weak, light pitched voice that had no rage within it and only pure sadness.

You woke in and out of uneasy dreams, mixed with the manic barking of the ill dog downstairs, plus the hoover rubbing the floors full blast, and the sleep as a result was all muddled and snapshot with ugly visions and a hip hopping slides between reality and dreamland.

You wonder why millions of people follow and listen to somebody who talks about themselves more than they do anything else. What’s the attraction of a huge narcissist? And what do their ramblings have to do with other people? You don’t understand the appeal.

It’s a fine thing to be able to post to people around the world, at 03:22 in a suburban room in Edinburgh. Post to folks across the globe who you’ve never met before. Even if only a few people read your stuff. Or if they don’t like it. Meh. It’s a blog. Somewhere to show your material to others. There are other night owls out there, also typing on their keypads, also with things to say.