And if she now asks you how and why you’re here
Tell her my search has ended
And yet I have no fear.
If still sometimes she gazes into the wild night sky
Remind her I still drift out there
And the spark-It never died.

A short eternity ago life threw us together
and sure in our knowledge and wisdom in the ways of the world
we dared it to shake us.

It did.

I think you’ve rubbed off on me and I’ve rubbed off on you.

Cliches suck.

And so don’t sit here and tell me that nothing will change
Don’t mutter something about friends being forever
And don’t promise to keep in contact.

Does it make sense to chain two cars going in different directions together?

So let’s not be chained together.
Was our friendship the people or the things the people shared?
So it’s the sharing that matters.

Fate throws us together and fate will pull us apart.
The tide goes out
and when it returns
it will not be the same water.
But the tide is the tide
whatever the water in it
and it is the tide that matters
for we are all part
of the same sea.

This year I saw starving miserable creatures slurping water with bits of vegetables floating in it
in a bright red plastic bowl
I saw a family where the love of the parents and the want of the children met in tears and grief and frustration
The little ones recieving not a shiny box wrapped in paper
But a singular little token wrapped in love
Drenched in the shame of the parents that they could not provide more.

I saw a family putting on a brave face, pretending things were well
Empty people wrapped in their Christmas clothes, but an empty box inside
They were eating. They had plenty, of the best, the food was good. A happiness was there.
The tree was burried in gifts, wrapped in bright red paper, and inside expensive plastic tokens.
The gifts were just gifts though, objects which they gave and got.
The food was just food to be eaten and to enjoy,
The clothes were smart and suave and beautiful, it made the people inside them feel good and special
Nothing else told them this.

I saw a bitter old woman sitting alone by an electric fireplace
In a 1930s semi south of London, burnt lungs were her Christmas present.
As the sooty dark smoke drowned her veins and choked her heart
It no longer mattered, her heart had been ripped out already
The debris scattered across her dark puke green and brown tattered carpet
But why should she care anymore? Nobody else did.

Hence we continue, to the lost vagabond in the middle class home
with everything to live for and everything provided.
He has a love he has food he has presents he has friends
But still walks the streets alone cold and starving in his head.
He still has the pain of the poor working family who can provide nothing but love.
He still has the emptiness of those that have everything but have nothing that is real.
He still has the stubborn lonliness of the woman who could get up and
leave and start again, but prefers to burn herself from inside.

But most importantly, he has the hope of a New Year, just days away.

Crap that’s been done 1000 times before
and 1000 times again.
It comes pre-packaged ready to eat
the way of the world
standing on his own two feet.

Eden’s apple ready-sliced and served in a plastic pouch
0.99 with any value meal just for you.
You can have anything from life
-as long as it’s on the menu.