Mulled, Like The Wine

So you're back.

Tired, worried and a little stressed. There's a dull throb in your chest cavity where you suspect there was something. Once. Oodles of work to do, bills to pay, the filial worry gene kicking in (responsibility, anyone? I'll have mine with the fries) and that familiar itch that tells you you're horny as hell.

Welcome back, boyo.

You tell yourself it's just the stress of a long week, of the travelling and the face you put on so nobody else worries, and so everyone will be at least a little less frightened. Then there are the glimpses of something (nothing, you try and say but everyone's seen them at least once) you can't pin down, as if someone sent a personal Dementor hovering just out sight in the inbetween places where it's dark and scary and most of all everything smells of sad.

"What's the name of the word for the precise moment when you realise that you've actually forgotten how it felt to make love to somebody you really liked a long time ago?"

Delirium to Morpheus in the Sandman: Brief Lives, Neil Gaiman

You tell yourself that life is like that, that for every little nugget of forgetfulness you managed to glean out of the sorry gravel that time pushes constantly in your direction there is always an equal (though you suspect more) price to pay in gold.

Sometimes you wish some doors close for good.
You do know better, of course.

In the end, the wishing never helps, the doors close (and open) of their own accord, and time sweeps you up, broken dreams and all.

Good morning.