I have become Hate.

All I feel now is anger. Rage. Utter consuming Fury.

Those of you who like to look for rational A to B reasons in all things might as well stop reading now, because my explanation, very limited though it will be, will offend your bland black and white sensibilities so much that you will surely dismiss it all with a shake of your largely padded mind, and put it all down to a rant from someone who should concentrate more on their career. On paying the bills and getting out more. On having, what I am sure you sincerely believe is, “a life”.

I hate because, I think, there is nothing left to feel. Whatever part of me that is still doing its best to still be human realises that there is no other emotion left to feel.

I cannot love because love was burnt from me, and made into something cheap and meaningless.
I cannot fear because what is there left to fear in a world full of cattle and cardboard?
I cannot cry because I feel no sorrow for those who are so content in their limitations.
I cannot laugh because I cannot even smile.
I cannot rest because everything is wrong.

So all I feel is hate. Consuming, total Fury and rage. It courses through my every vein with a destructive force I have not felt in some time. Not since… no, no we’re not supposed to mention that are we?

My head is spinning with all this fast moving blood, carrying fresh thoughts into my overworked mind. I’m not very good at being a person, too easily distracted by things that don’t involve work and paying the bills and going out and having a life.

Call it a madness, it’s easier that way. But everything is wrong, and it surely can’t go on like this for much longer. And no one is doing anything about it. So my hand clenches into a fist, or the grip for a sword, and my teeth bite down hard on my lip. Why not? It’s all as arbitrary as a cup of tea, or getting drunk or paying the bills.

The universe is not this badly ordered, so why does it all happen like this?

Being in love is not about being happy. Being in love is not about being in pain, or disappointment, or about apologies. It’s not about candlelight, moonlight and dinner; nor dancing, lie-ins and hugs. It’s about being. It is everything. It brings out the very best in us, and the very worst. It’s about living everything life is, by one person. It is so powerful it transcends even death. It is the last bit of God left in us all. It is perhaps the most wonderfully irrational thing the human mind is capable of. I’ve always loved the irrational itself.

dance around your room in your pants to Heaven Must Be missing An Angel.

It worked for Cameron Diaz.

Poor Ophelia. Was she just a child who could not live without the love of her prince? Or was there a deeper pain she felt, deeper than the loss of her father? Was her death, serene and open armed as Millais depicted - mouth slightly open and eyes in undeniable surrender - comprehending a far greater absence? The death of hope perhaps - her arms embracing only an empty life, devoid of all love; all substance? Slowly she sinks from her final beautiful composure, adorned by her rosemary and lillies. The cold water douses her last breath and warmth, forever.

I cannot adequately explain my total deskside despondency. I don’t care. I just do not care. It’s all so facile, so arbitrary. I don’t know what I’m talking about and I’ve no interest in finding out. This isn’t me yet it takes up, or wastes, so very much of my life. There are oceans out there for goodness sake. There are forests and sunsets and mountains; adventures to be had; my life to be lived. Who cares if the polyester people don’t come to the meeting? What if these few years are it, and I’m spending them vegetating behind MDF?

I’ve been thinking about a long lost friend. I have been ever since I lost him.

Tonight, for no real reason, I put his name into Google. Only one entry came up, but it was undeniably him - a letter he’d written on a public website to a mother who’d lost her son.

One short letter that says everything I loved about my lost friend.

2/16/99

Best wishes
his name (his email)

I hear The Wolf at the door. No one else hears him. No one else ever hears anything but the drone of their own stale flesh. I even hear the blood upon his teeth; the sick copper splash of saliva dripping to the floor, claws cruel and jagged, scratching at the door. He knows well enough where I live now. He’s buckled all my weapons, one by one. Why not? Why not just let him in? He grows fatter, stronger - feeding is his call. I am his hunted. He is the hound of Death, and I his unconscious master.

Quite possibly the best review of the premiere of the recent Doctor Who series that I’ve seen.

In fact the whole site is good.

And as an addition to this, I have to testify that their front page warning that you may have to run and hide in the photocopier room for fear of laughing out loud at the office, prompted by the comment “Kar Farqui Gay… does not sound impressive. It sounds like a noise you can make by wiggling your armpit up and down” is entirely valid.

Some people think Love can happen with anyone – an abundant status to be achieved, rather than a rare rapport to discover. I would never want to “achieve” Love with just anyone. I wish I knew what attracted me to people so wrong for me. Maybe no one’s right for me. I’m not lamenting this, just exasperated at wasting myself on those who are in fact far less than I thought. “Who do you think you are?” you’re asking. “You’re not that great.” I didn’t say I was. But I don’t think Love is something found in a discount bin either.

I’m really not having a very good day. I feel quite lonely, quite detached from the world. It’s half past two and I’m stuck at my desk alone when I want to be at home, or in a park, anywhere; just looking at trees or the sky or drinking coffee with some music on, and my latest notebook beside me. Living a productive life for once, not this endless plodding pedestrian routine. I think I look too much to others to make life feel worthwhile, and am thus invariably disappointed. Nothing seems to have any meaning. It’s all so arbitrary.