It’s Sunday night. All is quiet. My stereo plays the music of Edward Shearmur softly in the background. The room is lit by candles for ambience, their dim flickering light supported by the warm wintery glow of the street light that shines through my lounge window from over the road. The street below is motionless.

It’s one of those moments that would perhaps be more rewarding if I simply put down my laptop and just relaxed. It’s a melancholy moment, but such for no reason that I can grasp. My eyes search the room and settle on the branches of the leafless tree outside.

I suddenly feel quite alone, in every way. Maybe I should abandon this ‘meanwhile’. If I have something to say then it isn’t manifesting itself through my fingertips and I can’t imagine that trying to force the issue will help.

So many words to choose from, yet not one is able to lead to another. There is no rhythm, no flow. The life in this text is lifeless. It will simply fade out when I finish typing. What good is that? There isn’t any point writing when the task is a task in itself.

I’ll come back later, maybe then I’ll have been able to grab and hold a thought long enough to make some sense of it?… [Click here to continue reading this article at ‘Meanwhile’]