Wird

I have a friend I don't see anymore, may never see again. Life just picks you up and carries you along at a terrifying speed. You go to a few dark and strange places and you realise that anything, quite literally, can happen. You assume the lover you see in the morning will come home again at night. You assume there will always be time to say sorry you had that fight. You assume there will always be another dance, another drink, more laughs to be had. But these assumptions have the substance of clouds. Foolish, foolish assumptions.

So anyway, I have this friend I don't see anymore, may never see again. She's a memory. She's a world away. She's the memory of laughter. She's words on a screen. She's a duck nailed to wooden spoons. She's a penguin. She's a bruise on my arm. She's laughter like a song. She's silly. She's smart. She's got this thing she does with words. When her fingers are lemony, I get things in my eyes.

Do you ever get that? When you read something and it just devastates you with its perfection? A collection of words we all have access to, but this someone has arranged them in such a way that there is a beat, and there is beauty and they've somehow made this perfect wordthing.

This memorybeing does this. She does it so well. And yet she frets about not being a good writer.

Which makes me laugh.

She is my favourite writer.