The English make a hard job of being

happy, a lot of the time it just seems

it’s too much hard work – they find it easier

to be mawkish and miserable. Regardless

of the pain we still have the necessity

to celebrate this messy thing we call 

life: this is the essence of living.

I have this sense of having pushed this abstract

experiment to its limit. Blue inky

dawn pushes itself against the over

cast morning sky. They stood there in the 

twilight praying and singing hymns to the

lost burning cathedral, and I remember

another life, another time, another

expression, another self, from three

decades ago. This weekend spring seeps in

upon the city – reality and

hope will mark the passing of the next few

months. I am a sapling bending with the

world: this will be the sound of the summer.

She sits there on the patio, under

the sun, head back, eyes closed. A blackbird sings

from the tree. This is the first time she has 

been out for a year, and she sits there

enjoying herself – this is how her life 

should be. This is for all the people we 

have lost and loved. We will always remember,

as long as I write none of you will ever

be forgotten. (My romanticism

seems to flair in the warmer weather.)

It would seem as an experiment, I

still have the potential of living like

a middle-aged teenager – should I end

my search for the meaning of life? After all,

life is more of a desire to live,

and with spring my desire begins to bubble 

forth once more. I desire to live. I live 

to desire, I am a desire machine.

So is this desire a search for some

form of grace?