building stories, storey by storey

We are all communists now…

The graphs are blank faces, reproduced in the newspapers as extreme versions of ‘spot the ball’ competitions. Red lines as deep wounds, frowns as deep as wide; arrowheads towards graph lines without markers or numbers. All meaning implied. “Downturn” and “bailout” are the twin terrors towering over us all, shadows of their giant destruction captured on the wind as shadows of doom. A new depression reaching out stride by stride.

September is a bleak month. September is a blank month. My diary gathers dust in its home. I wonder for what reason, or from which cause. Boredom, per chance, or else addiction to denial.

My real feelings can never be written here, but this is a ‘known known’. There are changes, alterations, there are feelings I cannot write anywhere. My own enveloped constraint. I do not know why my diary has been locked away, with each day passing as blank as the last. The reasons could be simple. I wonder about fear, concern, shame. Or something less subtle. Waves of consequence crash upon the shore. More than love.

The real truth waits in the wings, waiting for its cue. The arguments we have are fake, themselves staged, no doubt carried out with words rehearsed on walks home or waiting over the kettle or channel flicking. All out of luck.

I cannot see the picture in its entirity any more. The old diaries would sing about the domino effect, the knowledge of consequence and the fragility of photographs. Presently the real concern seems slighter, more narrow. Something is missing, like the knowledge of one mis-placed jigsaw piece in a puzzle of a thousand. There will no doubt me more of this later…

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