A few years ago, I lost my youngest brother to suicide. My family lost me. My job lost me. I was lost.

Where did the words go? Lost deep in my thoughts, sucked dry by my self-loathing. Long gone an expression of all things good, they now rise from the grave grasping at my soul.

My joy is gone. The memory of a boy lost in a story, a sun drenched room, curled upon his father’s chair, whiling away the summer break. Fantasy worlds unfolding with each turning page, each passing hour.

No fantasy now, no books, no story. Just an aging man wrestling time and his delusions. The could-have-been, the loser. Alone among his demons.

Another summer passed. Marked by tides of idleness and irrelevance lapping at my feet. So gentle, yet unstoppable and eternal. Beneath the rippling waves, silently stripping away my shore. No more my control than I might touch the moon.

Where did the words go? Words that spoke of hero’s journeys, battles and great adventure. Of nemeses, loves, lust and loss. Of endurance and resilience, honour and betrayal.

No ennobling story this day. No comfortable chair. A cheap table strewn with life’s banality. I am the vanquished. No battle, but pitiful submission. Sinking slowing beneath the watery sand.


Sometimes we need find ourselves lost in order to be found.

Since then I found me again. My family found a me (eventually).

I gradually found a new voice, one more resonant and true.

And in that voice, my little brother found a new place to live in me.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.