Sunday, 19 September

I have done something extremely brave. I have informed Luke that I am writing a postgraduate dissertation on magic in the Synoptic Gospels. It was a tough decision but I decided to confide in him because he has been consistently honest with me and, most importantly, I trust him. Thankfully he had a positive response - in fact he thinks it’s important that people know the truth - but he advised me to be extremely cautious and he made me promise not to tell anyone else about my research for now (I considered deleting this blog in view of his warnings, but I’ve decided to keep writing and be extra vigilant about what I reveal in future).

Luke’s concern for my welfare has gone into overdrive recently and, if I am honest, he is becoming a little overprotective. He attends most of my sessions at Elmfield House now and he sits in the corner of the room like an overzealous chaperone patiently watching, writing poetry or reading a book (he is currently reading Grimms’ Fairy Tales). He is constantly checking on the state of my health and quizzing me about my movements outside Elmfield House and he has asked some deeply personal questions that I would never have imagined myself discussing with him a few months ago. I know that he is just looking out for me and he doesn’t mean to come across so overbearing and behave so possessively, but at the moment Alex is looking quite the pussycat in comparison!

I received an email from Luke on Friday evening that contained another set of photographs and the most amazing poem that I have ever read. He has distilled the very essence of our relationship into words and I will never cease to be astounded by how easily he captures my emotions and expresses them so articulately as his own. Sometimes I think that Luke is able to read my mind or my skull is made of glass and my thoughts and emotions are played out by tiny characters inside my head for all to see.

The Creation of the Nocturne

A vintage formulation
Like an aborted phase of childhood.
An idle blasphemous fever.

Cling to lycopodium and monkshood.
Suckle on milk of euphorbia.
Let me give you a mouthful of mercury.

Burst the blister and catch the deluge of warmth.
Slip into an infantile stupor.

Swaddled in a lattice of wisteria,
Waxy, purple blossoms,
Caressing and teasing

Wrapping, choking,
Tearing like wire,
Ripping to the core.

Pain wells,
Open to cry,
You ingest,

Absorb, drink in
The consuming heat,
Convulsing with fury,

Thrashing with fate.
Extract it, scratch it out,
Purge yourself.

Surface and breath.
Numbness and raw anguish.
Now close your mouth.

The wound is healed over,
The mirror is sheeted
And the thaumatrope turns.
Now you infest me.

But then you are gone,
Out with the dawn,
And eternally lost to me until tomorrow.

Sacramental love,
I am ill again,

Revive me.