Abandoned

A poem is never finished,
only abandoned.
– W. H.Auden, “quoting” Valéry

Aux yeux de ces amateurs d’inquiétude et de perfection, un ouvrage n’est jamais achevé, – mot qui pour eu n’a aucun sens, – mais abandonné; et cet abandon, qui le livre aux flammes ou au public (et qu’il soit l’effet de la lassitude ou de l’obligation de livrer), leur est une sorte d’accident, comparable à la rupture d’une réflexion, que la fatigue, le fâcheux, ou quelque sensation viennent rendre nulle.
– Paul Valéry, au sujet du Cimetière marin.

After a break, I find the blog needs a bit of a wash and brush up. Sorry for any quirks. And thanks for the kind messages in my absence.

Lifeline

The young woman fiddled busily with her phone. Another meaningless message, no doubt. I’m in the train. I’ll be with you soon. How I hate the rain.

Her eyes scanned her inbox for the umpteenth time. No new messages.

She saw the disapproval in his eyes. But he didn’t understand. The phone was her. It had all her pictures. Contained all her friends. Was her eyes, her ears, her mouth. Her memory of the past and her plans for the future. When noone called, or texted, did she really exist?

The phone vibrated and she answered eagerly. She was alive.

So-so. Crunchy, but no chewy centre.