I found memories in a notebook
What’s the point in games?
When someone will feel small.
What’s the point in being a poet?
When you’re never really looked on at all.
— a younger me
Over the weekend I was back in my hometown of Barrow-in-Furness. And, as often tends to happen now that I don’t spend much time at my house of 18 years, I did a bit of digging around.
See, my Mum wants to eventually clear out my room and turn it in to a guest room. I have no problem with that. I don’t live there any more and hopefully never will again, so it may as well get the Mother Morrow Makeover Treatment™️.
So while she was pestering me about what I could take back to Manchester, she pulled open my desk and said ‘You’ve got all of your notebooks and stuff in here’
‘Oooooh,’ I replied, ‘interesting’
And then I pulled out this:
An Asda Price reporters notebook, filled with pages upon pages of a young Elliot’s poems and stories and drawings and scribbles. Pure nostalgia on a dead tree.
I can’t wait to share some of its content with y’all, but for now enjoy the poem at the top of the Chapter.
Thanks for reading Chapter 184!
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