Off To The Gym
Deeply personal post alert. I’ve joined a gym. This is not that unusual in itself, I’ve had a couple of gym memberships in the past, and have maintained a fairly active lifestyle. But I’m losing a battle right now, in that even though there’s a failry balanced diet going on, my metabolism is all shot to hell, there’s a family history of diabetes, cancer and heart disease, and I have a heart murmur. So I joined the gym because I don’t want to die, because I’d like to be healthy and fit like I once was a long time ago, and because it’s getting to the point where I don’t see myself anymore in the mirror, I just see someone I don’t really recognise and I’m not comfortable with that. Sometimes it’s hard remembering that I’m not the much slimmer version of me I remember. But every so often you catch a glimpse of yourself in someone else’s eyes, and you realise that sometimes you want to be beautiful. This could be an appropriate time to put in all the PC bollocks, but screw that. So, hard slog here we go.

I’d like to write you a letter, with ink and pen upon thick paper that feels good in your hands. I’d like to leave the weight of my words with you, a deep impression on the page. And I’d like to know you received it, took it into your hands, ran your fingers over the postage and finally came to understand.. that I’m writing much more than a postcard; I’m telling you the story so far. I’m opening pages of blankness and letting you sink in the plot.

These words that I’d write you; would be fragile and soft, but in the romance of reading them, you’d forget we were lost. If my words were a roadmap, from here to where we’d rather be, then I’d write you a letter, in the hope we’d one day arrive. Lay them out along lines in a page, full of humour, sorrow and life. Every story we’ve told, every one-liner joke would make it’s way into the fold. Cos life is series of chapters, that you can read out of time, and nothing makes sense til the last page, but seemingly everything fine, when I’m crying alone in the darkness. As I’m sitting out the moonlight. As I’m waiting for you to come home now, as I’m waiting for words to arrive.

I’m a songwriter sometimes, and my words seem to open the world when there’s rhythm beneath that carries me over, I know some things will be fine. But I’m searching for words that will tell you, how terribly sorry I am. Everything small thing that I’ve ruined, with asking too much. I’m grieving for everything lost to me, though I still have so much in my hands, I’m sorrowful now ever after, for not opening closer to man. There’s words left here within me, and I’d write you a letter to spill them. I’d tell you how sorry I am.

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