Despair is a word that scares us to the bone. Despair is a feeling we are programed to avoid or at least conceal should it catch up with us on some random Monday afternoon when we least expected it. Despair blows cold through a fragile heart, like a stormy wind against an ill-fitting window it will find our cracks and reach far into our timid spirits.

Dom KerkDespair doesn’t care what we have been or what we have seen. It dances in the shadows cast by the flickering warmth of a Christmas candle or as  demons in the dark corners of a  room aglow with the shimmering fairy light of a smoky fire. It hides in the broken heart of a life spent exposed to a world that turned away and had nothing to say.

It hides in the dreams of an abandoned child with a pillow for a mother and a father blinded by expectations impossible, unreachable, impeachable. The impeccable failure, the perfect misfit, a heart without a body and a body torn apart by long wasted dreams of a summers warmth, of laughter and love. Despair becomes so easily the fabric-forming thread that clothes a naked soul and keeps her from feeling the cold endless stares of people who know but just don’t care.

Despair hides in the palm of your hand when the answer you thought you’d found explodes into a thousand questions and then a thousand more. Despair waits for you in your home, on your own when you close the door and you can hide from the truth no more.

Despair is the end of a life spent wishing for a body that was true, for a body just like you……

Despair is about saying goodbye……

Despair is about not knowing why……


Waiting for Weasels

I think I might be pretty much done with life just now. Not the world, just life. The world is a wondrous place full to its breathtaking, astonishing, overflowing brim with creatures and places and smells and sounds and sights to simultaneously fill a weary heart with joy and empty the lungs in an astonished gasp. Continue reading

Swimming with Rivers

I got properly into a river yesterday, up to my middle, for the first time possibly since I was a child. I say possibly because I can’t actually remember the last time I got into a river. About fourteen or fifteen years ago I paddled, like some painfully white stick insect, in the Caribbean Ocean on a miserable holiday but that’s the last time I remember getting properly wet in anything other than a bath or a shower or a rainy day. Continue reading

The Distance Between Us

Loneliness is a mean, spiteful feeling. Loneliness is the one that punishes the different, the injured, or the plain unlucky and loneliness is the feeling with which I battle at my most futile. My feelings and I are not the best of friends, a mirror perhaps for the disconnection between my inside and my outside. I have made a tentative peace with the depression and melancholy that stalk my waking, and more recently, my sleeping hours. I have even found ways to channel the sadness I often feel towards both my self and my body for that which so far at least, we have failed to become in our quest to find a resolution to an inconveniently twisted life. But loneliness is the demon that defeats me still. Continue reading