Miserable half-truths

I arrived back in Watermouth at five thirty p.m. I had the usual and by now expected pangs as my security was momentarily shattered again and I shifted into another mold, but my spirits rose as the coach sailed south.

Yet as soon as I staggered in, breathless and sweating, my heart sank and my good mood with it. The house was a pigsty: in the corner, half-filled bottles of urine, sour milk, dirty cups and stale ash trays, Barry lounging apathetically amid the chaos, and not even a working toilet, nor a tap. Alex, Gav and Barry seem content to let the situation stand and drugs rule: scag, speed and hash are the dominant influences.

I felt utterly forlorn and could only think longingly of the ORDER at home and wished I’d stayed a few more days. This was the catalyst for other thoughts and I felt weary, at a loss, and on the brink of desperation, as though I could just throw in the towel. The wearying inevitability of doubt, self-condemnation, the great gnawing tide of dissatisfaction and miserable half-truths and misunderstandings will soon sweep me up, suffocating my mind and making me sad, desperately sad . . .

I’ve written this, and haven’t written it well, but this had to be said and I’ve at least done that.