He always hedges his bets,
Three on the go at the same time,
Seperately, of course. A lot of
Self-searching, imagined mainly,
Because the tortured soul routine,
Tortured poet actually, always works
Best, until he realises they’ve seen
Through him from the start,
And dispense with him
For a real girls’ life out.
Honesties are better than hedges.
Even though there’s less sex.
R 27/02/2023 18:05
I’ve read two SAS/spy novels (middling), and now I’ve been back to Rickman’s diaries for 24 hours. They’re going to have to go away for some months, I think. Too frazzling. Depression. Illness. Constant questioning of self-worth and actions. And retractions and contradictions. And staccato days, not just sentences. Single. Words. Speed. Confusion. Too similar (although he will always be mnore famous than me – maybe). Makes me realise that constant drive to have our voice heard in some way or another. Because there is a voice. And it has many worthwile things to say. A matter of timing. A matter of time. Not just passing. But available, too. Making time for yourself doesn’t work most of the time when life’s finite. And none of us are immortal gods. More’s the shame.