Other people get their meaning from other things, this is mine. It’s not money and has never been sex. It’s not beer or laughter, it’s not company; it’s this. It’s simply writing and unfolding the past. The past that has been shoved away like a badly packed tent after a traumatic camping trip.
There are creatures still lurking in the canvas; there is water that threatens to turn the tent mouldy and it has started to smell. But if I can bring it out and cope with the smell and the insects, then I can get it aired and get it up and use it. Spend some time out under the stars and under the old canvas.
There’s a metaphor for you.