You’re 12 years old. It’s your birthday. Write for ten minutes on that memory. GO.
Photographers, artists, poets: show us RECKLESS.
Fast times. Pizza Hut, or Aroma, one of the two – or somewhere in-between. Friends; some friends. Family. People. Luton-town, grey and bleak, that town with an airport – but this is in Town, where the shopping centre is – and the cinema – and the train station – and that kebab shop next to the kebab shop. This town should be joyless, but I’m okay with food in my mouth and people around me. It’s a warm day – or it was a warm day. Then – right then – it was creeping dark, but I don’t notice. Food is the great blockade.
Birthdays don’t change much, besides the alcohol. These days, drink – eat – be merry. Have a laugh, but make sure to allow yourself time to mourn your former age. Say goodbye. Have a funeral. A small one. Five minutes maximum. Maybe ten if you’re past thirty. A silent vigil. A respectful farewell. Then – back to the present. Snap back. No dawdling. No sad songs. Hello, one more year of living. Snakes and ladders without the snakes or ladders. You’re taking the slow route forward, one year at a time, and there’s no changing that.