I was right. Twenty six is too old.
 
Never have I felt frustration with myself as this - such an anger at my own laziness, and perhaps my own fear. Barbara said I should have gone, that I should have cancelled my weekend in Cambridge. Steve said it will be fine. I hope so. It was all so unfair - so last minute and all so much at once.

But I just can’t help but feel I’ve made a big mistake.

I prayed on the train. Probably not in a way that most people would recognise. To really pray I think you have to give up a little bit of yourself - something you must be prepared to sacrifice. Whenever I’m in doubt as to what I do one of two things - I give up a little bit of my life (an hour, a day, a month) or I leave it up to god to choose.

Today I let god choose.

I sat back afterwards, exhausted, and the crowded train carriage faded back into reality around me. I couldn’t move, could barely think anymore, so I just sat and looked at people’s auras. It’s a neat trick I learnt recently, and somehow more satisfying than a crossword (especially a cryptic crossword which I’m starting to think were only created by pompous smartarses to make themselves feel superior at the expense of other people’s self-confidence. These are the sort of people who wanted to be in a gang at school but were never allowed, and so compensated by having their parents throw lavish indulgent birthday parties with jelly and ice cream and balloons to which everyone except the other gang members were invited. And I dare say there was even pie. But no clowns. Clowns should never be allowed anywhere, and least of all a children’s party).

I can’t see colours though, not yet. Only the outline - a sort of veil-like shield or halo around the person that wisps like mist or steam. I thought I saw green arond a sleeping man’s head, but that could have just been the effect of the trees blurring past behind.

There are other options. There are always other options. But I can’t get over this certainty that opportunity came knocking and I, for some reason, pretended not to be in. People like Steve and Gwil and Little One have told me about so many other opportunities already. There’s something about writers who are serious about what they want to do that makes them so disarmingly helpful to others who are struggling just as much as themselves. What is it about me that expects people to be guarded and suspicious, or not to expect anyone else to so freely share information such as this to like-minded people? As an aside, Gwil has only recently returned from Cardiff, filming a brief scene in a certain upcoming spin-off of a certain major TV show. Jammy git.

Time reveals all things. Time well tell. You just have to ask him the right questions and listen hard enough to hear his reply.