“Then take me disappearin’ through the smoke rings of my mind
Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves
The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free
Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves
Let me forget about today until tomorrow”

She meandered across the empty sea-side carpark in the dark with her wine bottle in hand, the edges of her sillouette glowed against the moon. The sound of her abrupt laughter made me jump a little, the sound was harsh but not terrible, it just filled the empty space so suddenly without any warning.

“What was so funny?” I mused, more to myself than to her. I suspected the sound of the ocean would muffle my inquiry too greatly in any case.

“You’d never guess, and I’ll never tell” she said it with such a smile that I could hear it in her voice.

She’d paused at the top of the stairs that led down to the sand. Looking up, her toes were over the lip of the top step. Her dress flattened around her figure as the wind blew in from the ocean, and the flowing fabric danced in the darkness behind her. I approached her quietly, but I could sense that she knew I was there. She didn’t falter though. Her eyes were fixed on the universe above us. Her face seemed pale, but her eyes were alight with life, her breathing was soft, the aroma of the red wine mingled with the salt air.

She was beautiful. She was beautifully allusive.

She looked at me, and smiled. Her teeth were straight and her skin was clear. She had a simple face. She turned away before I could smile back, and she rushed down the stairs.

[...Unfinished]

"It's like a man's best party only happens when he dies"

Humans are cruel.

Humans are stupid.

Every development we seem to make, every glorious step forward is going to be our children's children's children's demise.

We are going to commit self-genocide.

Can't figure out what I'm trying to say.

My little star, my whole constellation, my little brave hunter.

He's so breathtaking when he sleeps. So still, just his chest rising and falling to his own rhythm. So innocent, I don't know that he's not having a nightmare, but at a guess, I'd say he wasn't. Skin so soft and smooth, he seems so healthy.

A fox called Pablo.

A dream so bizarre, forgotten instantly on wake.

Why do our minds torment us so?

This is the life we lead. No greater power has decided this for us, we determine our own path. Every decision you make is vital.

My life is gaining direction and momentum. But I'm lacking motivation.

[Writer's block is a bitch]

13, 14, 15 [November too-thows-and-and-nien.]

I’ve been walking for days.
My mind will not sleep.
My body will not rest.
My determination is ever-long.
I’m going to figure out what it is I’m solving.
There’s a constant dialogue in my head.
I’ve taken a journey to many places in a small space.
Elevators, cradle-sides, dance floors, taxi-cabs, 37th floors, parks and verandas, boardwalks, bedsides, buses, DJ booths, beds 5 cushions high, waterfalls, supermarkets and 4am foreign football games.
All I’ve done is reflect.
Am I walking in circles?
No. I’ve not been here before.
I’ve met new friends.
I’ve mulled over current issues with old friends.
And never the question which is the answer has become clear.
Standing at the river’s edge, I wrote...
“If I cross this body of water, will you promise me you wont try this at home?
I stand here wondering why I just wouldn’t care if I made it to the other side or not.
I know why.
There are women walking past me with paid men holding their umbrellas as they stroll.
They might call that living, but they don’t live.
They simply survive.
I have never ever stopped living.
I never want to be that woman.
Die trying, or die a coward.
I feel like going for a swim. At least I know I’d be doing it for myself.
If I cross this body of water, will you promise me you wont try this at home?”


I am learning.
And for now, that is what I'm best at.

A side-note.

Most of the entries in here are just thoughts, stream of consciousness, but I posted them, mostly unedited too.

A lot are just trying to capture a personality, most of them sad apparently.

But I suppose that's a lot to do with things being fairly shithouse for me lately!

I'm not as negative as these blogs might perceive me to be, promise.

There's a lot to be learnt from re-reading something written in a fit of anger or upset.

Enjoy.

The same thing I think with every new Interest. Such is love I guess?

There’s a lot to be found in the translations of our conversations.

Hours pass and nothing profound is said, but instead suggested.

I’ve dreamt about you finding out about these thoughts I have.

I can’t quite figure out the way my heart races, and my eyes smile,

Does this mean something so significant?

There’s something about you,

That makes me feel more alive than almost anyone I know.

There’s something about you,

That makes my entire face smile, eye to eye, ear to ear.

You make me look like an ascii face ^_^

I sit trying to figure out how I feel about you.

And no conclusion arises. But I’m content.

Just to sit and contemplate you.

I’m happy just to think of you,

I know exactly what it is I feel.

And it’s stronger than either of us would care to acknowledge I suspect.

The way I over-analyse every time you don’t reply with your normal quit wit.

The way my stomach flips.

You make me feel sea-sick.

A Funeral.

And so here I was, at 25, sitting second row deep at my best friend Sophie’s largest party to date.

When someone dies, people always speak of ‘something missing’ in their lives. Nothing is missing. Death is like moving house. It is simply that someone has moved, to a new, dark and very much smaller house, where nobody visits and nobody can communicate. Really, it wouldn’t make much difference to the people at this party, except that now they felt guilty for treating her like she’d already moved house while she was still alive. These people were trying to fill their missing spaces with self-forgiveness. Of course it’s not their fault that they didn’t take 5 minutes a month to call her and say something appreciative. They didn’t have time between work and their babies, their box set DVDs and shopping for a new dining table. “Nobody can be blamed for her death, it was a tragedy” they’ll say later, while they stare into their wine and Pride and the Prejudice DVDs dimly light a room with a new dining table and the TV cabinet they bought, reassuring themselves that “Sophie would have loved it”. They were here because they needed self re-assurance. There was no true compassion. This death was their fault.

Sophie had come home from work that Friday, her last column written and handed to the boss. She drank a glass and a half of wine, the lipstick on the rim was her last mark of self-enjoyment left for anyone to find. Then she’d hung her clothes.

But Sophie never got undressed.

Life as we're ignoring it?

They said to me, you’ll never get anywhere in life with an attitude like that.

And you know what I thought? I thought to myself, well I don’t really care, if I’m cruisy and happy, then what does it matter what you think? Truth be told, what you think, matters a lot. If every single person was ultimately as selfish as everyone suggests we should be, and as selfless as the rest say we should be, then we’d all be still in bed, alone, having complexes while the person lying next to us did the same. Occasional sex, sure, but nothing that meant anything.

There is no formula

There is no universal way to live

It’s all

Impromptu.

Rehearse all you want, think out, plan out, it wont go the way you want.

It’ll go it’s own way.