The Windows To My Soul

I no longer care about poetry.

Drop the mic, hold the phone, stop the press.

Its not that I’ve lost that creative part of my mind. I’m quite clearly exercising it here, just writing this post, I’m just slowly coming around to the idea that poetry is one of those useless things that really means nothing. Quite a u-turn I know. From self styled Gypsy Poet (with his very own website, nonetheless) to poetry hating philistine. How did this change take place? I leave poetry for just a year and suddenly I find myself completely at odds with myself.

Maybe it has something to do with the house that I bought.

In the midst of my 35th year, I gave the bank £30,000 and moved into my own home. Before this point I was working as a freelance carpenter, travelling the roads of Britain, struggling to make ends meet. I understand that sounds like an odd life to lead, but you’d be surprised by now normal it felt once you’d done it for a couple of years. Human beings are really very adaptable creatures, when I come to think of it. As long as we’re fed and we have a bed to sleep in, then there’s very little to stop us endlessly drifting through time – making little progress besides passing the days.

I inherited they money from an Aunt. She was always kind to me, supporting my odd choices in activities and defending my eccentricities; which is why I was surprised to receive a note along with the money reading:

‘Enough, you’ve had enough time. Take this money, buy yourself a home and come back to us.’

I could’ve ignored the note, a last request from a dying woman who had cared for me. I could’ve taken the money and headed back on to the road for another 5 years. But I didn’t. I remembered her kind smile and stern eyes. I bought the house.

Of course, I couldn’t simply settle with a normal place – I needed a house with a story, battered and in need of work. So I found a detached farm house on the edge of a village that had always welcomed my services and got to work. Over the course of a few weeks, I had completely dismantled my old gypsy caravan and retooled the parts into my stationary home, until only the wheels and axles were left. I’d transplanted the familiar feeling of home into the alien lifestyle of stationary living – and it was good.

The one thing I was in need of, though, was windows.

For years I’d slept in relative darkness, the wind and rain buffeting the treated oak of my gypsy caravan. Now I was living in one spot, I could invest in something a little more insulating. With plenty of cash left over from the purchase, I called up some old friends, who were busy building conservatories in Chester. They helped me fit my new home with thick double glazing, so that I could finally go to sleep at night without the sound of the winds whistling through the cracks in my home.

There are times when I wake up in the middle of the night with the feeling that something has gone terribly wrong. The absence of any ambient sound shocks me into wakefulness before I remember where I am and what has changed. Then I stretch out, walk through the dim grey of the early morning light and pull some orange juice out of the fridge.

I gaze out the clear windows at at purple sky, sprouting orange rays on the horizon and I think of Aunt Josie.

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