The moon, slung low in the sky, filled the side mirror with its liquid luminescence and made my eyes grow large and black as I began to stare inwards. Travelling onwards – a passenger – in love. Utterly, newly and youngly in love. In love and wishing I wasn't because I really couldn't be bothered with all that again when the grey slug in my brain was already whispering songs of doom.
But I was passenger with a sullen moon at my heel and sane people don't jump from moving cars.
That was one yesterday. One night in a succession of long slow, southern nights, followed by painfully bright southern days.
And I'd see it to the end and then I'd look outwards from despair and ask once again, “Where will I find my next love?”
Like mantras they arise unbidden in my mind – clouds of molecules spelling out lessons never learned. Fragments of teenage poetry forming the framework of my thinking brain. Where did that ten years of nights bring me?
I've always lived a troubled life to justify what I felt inside. It's as if I lived that ten years of nights in order to prove all that I already knew.