Do you ever feel you'd love to write about something that's really fogging up the old spectacles but you know you can't. And you sit on it and stew on it and privately journalize it and think there might be a short story or even a bloody novel in it but there isn't. The words stream on and there just isn't any way of getting rid of it, it is fraught with anger and sadness and a kind of resignation and despair and you'd love to spit it out at the world.
You know?
And you can't. Because of breached anonymity.
So many of you out there writing long and hard for years on such a platform as this must know whereof I write. Of which I write. Of.....
I suppose a good old suck it up might work, down the road that is. But right now and for the past while? It makes me seethe. It's not an uncommon loathsome behaviour I witnessed but I haven't seen it written about before. And I can't seem to work my way around disguising it. That breached anonymity thing you see.
I mentioned my dilemma to a family member and they had a great time with it - acting out how TV programmes handle such matters with changed names and disguised voices and descriptions. To the point where it took on a life of its own amidst our helpless laughter.
But this was no laughing matter and quite serious. And the desire is burning within to put it all out there rather than privately.
So I'll distract myself and tell you I returned from dear old Ireland today.
And yeah my heart's still broken and it all feels so surreal and I'm dying to tell her all about it and I can't.
So there it is.
Hence the picture I took of my three beloveds up above.
To cheer me up.
