A dripping tap is the source of all inspiration

The dripping tap in my kitchen, that today became unstoppable, has cast a strange spell on me that caused me to creep back to music, like a teenager sneaking back home after a huge row.  I got a candle and my notebook, loaded up Garageband on my Mac and sat at the kitchen table and sang.

These are the scribbled words written in May that I found in my notebook to use:

you took me to the river and showed me The Bridge

you said you had to go back but I could go on to the other side

where I might find a home

so you left me there

by the bridge

expected me to cross over

all on my own

and as I climbed the hill with someone else

I looked down

I could see the trees and rocks beneath

was that my home?

would that be where I would fit in?

my fascination startled you

like a moth caught circling the light bulb

you caught me staring at my potential demise

playing with it in my mind

magnetised

magnetised

magnetised

It's funny that I should manage to write something (the melody at least) today.  I had a text from ex-partner, just as I'd got through a day haunted by the dream of mine that he featured in last night.  It seems our lines of telepathy were not cut off by the universe and its plans to take us in different directions.  This is at least a second, if not third time that that's happened.  Somehow we still seem to have a thread of connection, like the initial anchor line of a spider's web that has stayed intact despite a blustery storm.

And all this just as the platform edge was looming large in the frame of my relationship with the architect too.  I don't know how we'll pull back from it, but I know it'll take a lot of effort, and I'm not sure the architect is a fan of effort.  I've always been one to think that making an effort is the only way to escape the misery, but maybe the cynical Czech mentality here harbours a valid point, that effort and hard work don't always bring results.  Sometimes there are just glass ceilings that no-one can fracture and there's nothing anyone can do about it.  I suppose it's exactly those times in which the thread of a spider's web can come to look rather welcoming.