By Ian Copestick
A Delicate Balance
I was just looking through my note book. In the last 4 months, since everything in my life went horribly wrong. Since my beloved woman of 18 years, and then my father died, I've had 10 new poems published. Before I used to get that many published in 1 month. When I was younger, I used to think that being depressed helped my writing. Heartbreak gave me something to write about. If that was ever true then it obviously isn't anymore. I guess it's a delicate balance. If I'm too happy, then I'm too busy enjoying life to write about it, but when I get too depressed it seems as worthless, and futile as everything else. I need to cheer myself up. Just not too much.
11 P.M. Saturday
I sit here, my soul gored, ripped, tattered beyond belief. I'm listening to cool jazz at 11 p.m. I ache all over, I have no idea why. Perhaps it's just because I'm getting old. In five weeks time I will be 49. I never thought I would live past 30, so I should be pleased, and look upon these years as a bonus. That's hard to do though, when the years are as bad as this one has been. The music helps though, jazz isn't my usual cup of tea, but occasionally I find it to be really soothing. Kind of like a good, hot bath, and then a night under clean sheets. God, THAT shows just how old I am, when that's my idea of a good night.