Free, Free, Set Them Free

I'm at work now (but of course, where else?) and I've just finished my first piece on warrants (it was hard and I hardly understood what I was doing and the nice deputy editor took my hand, walked me through it and made a few suggestions so I end the night feeling a little less like a piece of crap than I did earlier). Everyone else had given in their fixtures and I was just...just...well I forgot I had warrants to do. Why couldn't they give me a coffee break? I would have rocked that, no problem. Because I like talking about nothing in particular. Only rules, it has to be vaguely economic, and make you laugh.

So there.

We talked the down market till we were blue in the face.

Technical correction today but the mood is still sombre.

And so, two days ago, I heard in my head this little voice from more than 20 years ago...and it said...Jennifer, you forgot to wish me....and it was said in a sweet hopeful tone. What did I do? Bear that I was, just down for breakfast I bit her head off. And got (rightly so) mauled by my Mom for doing it. And then I called her upstairs and presented her with the presents I said I didn't buy and the little thing was happy again. (I have much to answer for)

I have been thinking lately about how much shit in my life is my fault. And how when I do something wrong, I'm not just content to leave it but I have to take it, worry it and make it worse.

And how many relationships I have dropped hand grenades on. Nuclear power. Explode!

I feel guilty and I know that guilt is not a positive emotion, I mean it doesn't build you up, doesn't DO anything...doesn't repair anything.

And so I picked up a piece that I had worked on, on and off, for about 15 years. Nicely framed. And I couldn't, just couldn't bring myself to give it to her. Not after what's happened. Not after we've become worse than strangers.

I feel tired now. And I woke up feeling sick.

And everybody's cigarette smoke keeps getting in my eyes, my throat, my lungs...and I cough and cough and sneeze and sneeze.

And my Arnold boy is back in hospital because the pus was building up again the two holes had closed up. Now they punctured him again. This time the holes are bigger...but the infection runs so deep.

He's happy when he sees me and he wants me to take him home. I didn't go play with him today cos I was at work. And I feel sad and guilty about it while reminding myself that there are no positive attributes to guilt...it's just ugly and painful.

I keep hearing these words over and over in my head:

Your love is a cage.

And I wonder who is saying it to me. Is it Arnold? Is it Mark? Is it one of my friends?

My love is a cage. So how do I open it?