So many times when I write - I'm going to admit a weakness for writing bad poetry, please don't hate me - what thrills me is exploring the dual meanings of words and right now concentrate is where it's at for me. You see - surprisingly, suddenly, thankfully, unlooked for and wonderfully - TA is home in three days' time and now, with a sense of immediacy, I realise that I'm going to need to hold on to something for dear life and it's going to mean that I need to concentrate on something difficult to grasp, something slippy and slidey, something that I don't know how to quantify or qualify let alone value, something that's difficult to pin down. And it's that contrary thing, the thing - possibly - that he fell in love with those four long years ago. That heady, intoxicating, sickly sweet concentrate of me that somehow gets diluted when he's around. That little mad bit of me that sits here typing and singing at the top of my voice - that part of me that runs down the street topless and blind (it's a long story) to unwittingly bare my breasts at Israeli soldiers, that part of me that says fuck it when things get too much, that part of me that is just a little bit mental, that part of me that I've been trying to disown and neuter for, sigh, twenty years, that part of me that is wild and exhilarated by craziness. Because that's the part of me that keeps life worth living and refuses to be ground down by responsibility and those bloody "client deliverables". It's that essence that makes me brave and willing to jump off the cliff just to see what falling feels like. And I know that's why he loves me, even though it scares the crap out of him. And that's why I love me, even though I am conflicted and scared, because it's that self-celebratory, caution-to-the-wind part of myself that creates all the best (and worst), makes living a rollercoaster, it's the wind in my hair and the butterflies in my stomach. And I've been playing safe for so long that it feels like playing dead.