I detest my job. This pretend life, this play at being an adult is losing all amusement. I only do this for the cash, and this is making me little better than a whore. I am overworked, underappreciated, and my efforts above and beyond only ever invite criticism. And it totally serves me right. This is not a life, and I have been far too lazy in indulging it for so long. I am lounging in comfy armchairs, sinking ever further into them. Time to leave the velvet clad prison, to where the air is cold, but at least moving.

this song reminds me of home - my real home - and the smell of the sea at night, the warmth of my friends behind the frost of the north wind. yet my heart longs for elsewhere. lyrics that lick at memories, remembering eyes looking at me, and arms late at night. It hurts. Behind the eyes, in my chest, my stomach, along my jaw. what are these places? it makes no sense. and why now? why do i miss these things now? why is it every so often I have to endure the horrific sweet horror of the certainty that these were perfect. that there was only one. that the one is gone. i put this song on again, and it goes on and on, round and round. why does it blur the sea with him so perfectly as if he were there? because they were the two things i loved the most and lost? what else will this song remind me of then in a year? is there anything left to find between the lyrics? i am lonely. there are times when the space between the atoms manifests itself as a call for company. i am so lost in myself, i no longer know what tenderness is. these can’t be my feelings, these aren’t my own tears biting behind my own eyes. i feel like a past life manifest, a sad little tree in a desert at night. i see stars, inky blue skies making the sweeping red dunes seem purple as the sun yields to the pale milk of the moon. and yet i see it alone. is this my curse then? to see beauty, but to only see beauty alone? is this what it is to be a ghost? am i a ghost? is love the ghost that possesses me? maybe it’s the tea i made. too much rosemary - just chemicals prodding at dormant synapses that withered all, long ago. blood and electricity rushing through dry, dead and rotten tubes, long left abandoned to the memory of memories themselves having once lived there. is that the irony? to be able to talk to god but to have nothing to say? in the red light i watch the steam of this potion twist and curl like… like i do not know what. i began to drink it before it was even made - just this urge, compulsion for it, when everything became fuzzy and distant, and i slowly began to slip back into somewhere deep within my mind, watching the world from one foot behind my eyes. i must tidy this room. must go wash these sheets. perhaps this is my life passing peacefully before my eyes. the moment seems to have past. reality seems to have crept back into the steam - the candlesmoke. and yet the world still seems quite not real. what is real? is love real? is loss real? is god real? i want to touch the universe to feel complete. i no longer trust humans enough to touch god through them. their love is impure, immature. i can see him, he is watching tv, glasses, cat next to him, still in his work clothes. he is foolish and he makes mistakes. but he was the last human i think i found i could love. for that, he will always be special i think. but the moment has passed. normality has returned. it is here to stay. but for no longer than today.

This song reminds me of the night sea - friends’ warmth behind the frosty north wind. Lyrics lick painfully at memories, remembering eyes and arms. Why does it blur the sea and he so perfectly? I am lost in myself, no longer knowing tenderness. I am a sad little tree in a desert at night. Stars and inky blue skies make the sweeping red dunes purple as the sun yields to the pale milk of the moon. Yet I am cursed to see beauty alone. Just blood and electricity rush through dormant synapses that withered all when lives became memory.

I noticed them when leaving the cornershop with my packet of crisps - my five minute lunch break as taken for the past week now. Red, green and yellow maple leaves littered the pavement like calling cards, the last remnants of a carnival pointing to where the party’s headed next. I have to get out of this town, out of this life. There is nothing here for me anymore but routine, and thankless indifferent prostitution. I went home and sent some poems off to competitions, like releasing doves into the evening sky. I soon fell asleep listening to the rain.

J threw a dinner party, and we all assembled for curry. Afterwards he and H stood at the piano, still holding wine, singing Cowardian lounge music with a gleeful familiarity that must be hardwired into all Cambridge graduates. I even myself performed Monty Python’s “Penis Song”, correcting J on the correct tempo to be used. He promised to teach me Bach’s Aria Da Capo, so I couldn’t have been too presumptuous. A person I could have been watched from behind drunken eyes at a young cherry tree in blossom. A brief reflection of dawn on a day obsessed with sunset.

You’re Elle Driver, your style is a bit weird, you
wear a patch over your eye and you carry an
umbrela but you still seem to kick ass so who
cares?

Which Kill Bill Character are you: Volume 1
brought to you by Quizilla

I had to scope out a venue today, so I found myself on London’s South Bank in the early afternoon wearing a suit. I detest wearing a suit, but there’s still a juvenile sense of adventure in entering a large corporation’s tower. You feel a bit like a spy. The nametag I had to wear even made me feel like some kind of FBI agent. It’s these little games I play by myself that are the only things that keep me sane in my job. When I got home I made Most Incredible Stir Fry™ using pears. Who’d have thought?

Well, he seems nice enough, though to be honest and perhaps a little unfair, I was expecting someone who didn’t blur quite so spectacularly into the furniture. And it always seems those who are so certain of their own morality are quick to accuse others of arrogance. Still, it is getting him out of the house. Curious that our roles seem to have conspicuously swapped over the past few months. I do not know where this venom comes from in me - this bitterness and scorn. It is certainly not jealousy. Perhaps I am just resisting where I am headed.

For all you new age Wiccan enthusiasts out there, here is a very simple spell to remove the troublesome aspects of a juvenile low income socio-economic bracket soirée that continues long into the night, blasting out quite audible dirge long into the early hours, and ending with a cricket-like cocophany of teenagers rutting in the bushes below your window.

You will need:

I’ve missed him, because no one else shared my love of darkness; its many beautiful shadows cast against the mundane - nothing without the light behind. He showed me his paintings, a scene from our favourite movie. Then we returned to the wine, and the talk of cheap human things, only occasionally stealing looks from each other to reaffirm our friendship and our difference. That night I dreamt of a demon before an innocent, the former shrouded in golden light. The innocent thought the demon was an angel. “Behind the light, darkness,” the innocent said. And the innocent was right.