Sunday, September 16


THE GOOD THING about writing fiction is that one is able to articulate feelings from youth that couldn’t be articulated at the time, so one jumps back in time and offers a stronger voice. So it is with I and the protagonist of my story, Tom...

‘Time just kept moving at whatever pace it preferred and one could only be swept along by it, never quite able to reach the bank, stretching out, yes, with pained arms but its waters were stronger than him and Tom understood, finally, that he would never be stronger than those waters but up in his tree, thirsty and alone, water had developed a holiness to him that, with his taps and bathtubs, he could never have foreseen; so let those waters carry him because he had no choice and it was time that had left him no choice; he had only to keep his chin above and his arms moving and it was best that he forgot that the bank was ever there, because, he realised, that bank was death, where he was dragged from time and left upon the side while the water moved on and away from him.’

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