What if the eye of the storm was the reason for it.  I remember in meditation, which I practised years ago  that concentrating on the sounds of my breath as a means to close out the constant business of the mind was the pathway to an imperceptible point where the bliss of meditation and unawareness begins.

There is a stillness when writing too.  Is  concentrating on the words and the rhythm of
them also a means not to listen to the constant business of other stuff and a pathway
to an imperceptible point were time disappears?   When I say that writing is as close to me as family I think there is some link between the state I am in when I write and  what I am  missing in never having family. 

At each stage in my life, I am reminded of the centrality of family. It is terrifying. I am of the age now where the next stage – the next set of reminders –  is of parents dying.  Friends parents shall be passing away  and I will  listen to their trauma.

It was the same when they went to university, it was the same when they bought their first
houses, it was the same when they had relationships which broke and the same way as they built their careers,  got their first jobs,  went on holiday, had to leave for Sunday dinner, ranaway.

The list is endless. I  listen to them punctuate their lives with  family while at the same time espousing independence. All in the knowledge that I had none to define independence from.  In fact the whole idea of defining independence from a family simply underlines the
dependence upon it.

So what do I do at those times when I need family?  I withdraw, like I have this weekend. 
I certainly write. It is writing that is closer to me than family in that writing has been with me for longer. It is in writing that time disappears. I am my own family, a dysfunctional one like most.   I do not withdraw to lick wounds. I think those are healed.

But I  withdraw to ask the question Where are they and to answer the question they are not here lemn.  It is as if my entire life has been one in shock where at times of need  I return to that place where are they and the inevitable answer they are not here lemn.
I said in the play Something Dark I am my own echo. 

And so it is here that I have grown addiction.  Writing has all the traits of addiction. And  addiction has  the qualities of the eye of  the storm. The calm timeless centre.  If I am not
writing I show the traits of the addict in withdrawal. Is this positive, I am not sure. I have a high pain threshold as a friend tells me.  Did you solve the riddle  in the last blog, here is the answer. It is also the answer as to why I write this blog.