Now laughing friends deride
tears I cannot hide
so I smile and say
when a lovely flame dies
smoke gets in your eyes.

I've come to realise something about myself. I deal with grief not by indulging it, but by trying to overwhelm it with happiness. I try as hard as possible to be happy, which may give people the impression that I'm not all cut up about it, or that I'm already over it. Like the strong silent macho type, I hide my wounds and grieve in my own time. My grief is a shitty black ball, which I kick around inside my head. But if it's poisonous sometimes the best thing to do is to let it bleed. I say this with a heavy heart, because it spoils the pretty picture that might have been, the ending the audience so much wanted to see. Instead of a romantic ending, they're getting the messy beginning of a new film altogether. You see, I bloody loved that woman, and it hurts to be reminded of what I have lost, or even to hear about other people enjoying what I no longer can.

There is to be no neat transition. No comfortable overlapping of worlds, hers and mine, past and present. That's why it's called breaking up. Like a Wing Chun kick to the kneecap, it is unexpected and bloody. There is a sharp and sudden break, and it hurts like hell. Suddenly, your reality has nothing to do with the rest of the world. Quite simply, your world is a broken kneecap. How you make sense of that is up to you. Your healing process can leave scars, and even permanent disability. On the other hand you may be lucky enough to recover fully with the assistance of a beautiful nurse.

There is a story about a traveller on a cold winter's night. He met up with this girl called Ludmilla or Hermine, and they embarked on many strange and wonderful adventures, but suddenly the words ran out mid-page, mid-book. There were no words to be found on the next page, nor any pages after that, as if the author had suddenly tired of writing and walked away. Saddened by the lack of closure, the reader had to search for an ending in a new book by a totally unrelated author.

What happened next? Well maybe that's another book still. Is it poignant or annoying, that this unsatisfying cobbling together of narratives is the only way we can make sense of our lives?