when the glitters gone

Under the dim glow of the desk lamb memories of 2008 flood from my head. I pause, read the shapes that stain the paper, screw it up and start again.

I use a single colour, Blue. Then with a Black Biro scribble over the names and details contained in the self-addressed note.

A letter that may be found only by chance. Perhaps somewhere far away, where someone might read it and fall in love with it's author; another romance doomed from the start.

In the car I start to imagine the narration of my life. In this teen-drama I play the boy who's done wrong by everyone, the boy that no matter how hard he tries seems to tread on everything he once loved, everyone who ever cared for him. The boy that, with nothing left to lose is nearing the brink.

With no destination the drive is somewhat pointless. Then an idea. This note is to be a message in a bottle.

Having failed to have a suitable glass bottle at hand I find myself at a supermarket. Only its closed.Feeling optimistic I drive to a convince store, pull up on the pavement inches away from the door. Stare at the lady behind the desk, and drive off. The store probably doesn't sell glass bottles anyway.

On the shore line a car is sprawled across a disabled bay, lights on and doors wide open. From the cliff edge the sea appears flat and smooth.A sharp wind whips at my face, and the ground crumples under my weight. Sending fragments of red clay hurtling down into the wake of the white below; endlessly crashing against sharp rock.

I pull the crumpled paper out of my pocket, read over a few lines, and tare the sheets into a thousand snowflake like pieces. Loosening my grip, the white memories are quickly scattered across the bay like ashes from a urn.

headlights and pavements

As I lay here, I realise that this is the fourth day I have spent in bed. This is the fourth day that I don't give a shit that I have spent it in this bed.

Friday comes quicker than expected, and I find myself presenting my work to a french lady, who try as she might fails to ripped me apart; mainly because I couldn't be torn more than I already am. In the evening I attend a Charity ball...which I have already written off on account that a party in the place where you spend every waking hour (and that isn't your bedroom) is crap. At this end of semester party a few things happen:

1) I get very drunk after buying some very expensive vodka that I cannot afford, but I tell the cashier that Gordon Brown is paying for it, and she looks concerned.

2)We ask our module leader if she'd like an eight-sum with us. Instead of saying no, she says shes too old.

3)I tell my entire life story, in depressing detail to someone who I couldn't give a toss about.

I wake up at 3am, fully clothed on my floor, lights on, music blaring and decide that this has been the most unsuccessful night in my career.

Nothing eventful happens between then and now, apart from several minor details:

The train home, which only cost £1.85, is so full that I end up sitting on someones suitcase in the luggage rack and wishing that I'd walked the 89.5 miles.

I realise that my parents house contains rubbish detailing and was obviously a quick build coach house for the manor down the road and not the wonderful _____ cottage I once thought. I fail to understand how it is possible that four of us lived here for seventeen years, when we cant even cope with being here for four days.

Oh and I go to the local haunt on the Saturday night. At which I see all the people who I went to school with. All the people who never left this little town, and who now either have kids, or jobs which are extremely insignificant...yet they seem so content. I'm slightly envious.

But decide that I no longer give a shit; About anyone, or anything. So I take my car, and attempt to leave this all in my wake.

I have yet to sleep properly.

I was in love once.

fifteen hours

A dull, grey, light is thrown on to the floor of my bedroom. The violent red light of the clock proudly displays 12:23, and for several minutes I lay there, watching the little flashing colon, wishing my life were as regimented.

Whilst asleep someone has crawled into my head and is now scratching away the tissue with a spoon. This is perhaps the only time in my life I have suffered a hangover.

I pull on a royal blue "Smurfing record breaker" t-shirt, some grey and maroon jogger shorts, and a wristwatch; that I acquired from my father this weekend. Needless to say I can't read it. I shove my feet into my moccasin slippers and make the journey to the lecture hall.

The next hour is spent trawling face book in an attempt to find a reminder that may untangle the chain of events from the evening. I feel the gaze of the person behind, and to the right now reading with me. Immediately I begin to censor myself.

Eventually fragments of the torn fuzziness of last night start stitching themselves back together, and I find myself thinking that they should perhaps be relived, but never talked about at the same time.

Today at 12:52
__________ Face raped me, so if we had bet, I would now owe you 415 Danish kroner (Approx £50 rates as of 16/12/08). Also I feel like I didn’t see you for most of the night? My head is hurting, and I was sick in a drain, anorexic style.

Reply - Today and 14:01
My mouth is as dry as Gandhi's flip-flop, oh life. I have to get out of this bed

error: operator

I take the bottle from the shelf. Attempt to pour a glass and decide it's too much effort. So I drink from the bottle. The bitter cool grape scented liquid soothed by the warmth of my wind-sore lips.

I sit and type an email, I type without the intent of anyone ever reading it.

2248 "how's it going?

I'm feeling pretty shit, so if you don't mind I'm just gonna write here, as I don't feel like blogging, then you can ignore it and delete it, and pretend you never got this email.

So I've just got back from my friends apartment. She's the kind of friend that despite knowing each other for 8 or so years only calls when it suits her. Shes the type of friend who has friends, and together they have everything you could ever want. Why don't I have everything I have ever wanted?
Thats all I have to say on that topic.

I still feel glum.

How is your glumness.

Weird email over. (A reply would be nice, but I'm not expecting one)

Son"

As soon as I'm done I feel the sense of achieving absolutely nothing. So I add a recipient, and even though I have absolutely no intention of sending this email I do.

By now the bottle is empty. I look to the right and see the people in the apartments over. Enjoying themselves. I sharply close the curtain, take off all my clothes, contemplate a shower, but end up sitting down. I've absolutely no reason to feel like this. I just do. I need someone to touch. But don't we all?

in boston, no one knows my name

As I'm preparing to retire I find myself contemplating my week. Despite the fact that it is only Tuesday, tomorrow is Wednesday and the week is far from over.

I find myself thinking about myself. I'm flicking through the images of events, in my head, and the words that have haphazardly fallen out of my mouth. Filing them in some kind of logical order.

When I reach a awkward one.Monday. At the debating table in the studios. Here I can't help but find myself being hugely egotistical. My views often conflict those of others, but for some reason, I've recently decided to vocalise them even more so.

So here I am. Waging academic war with those that oppose or annoy me. And in my head someone is drawing a small arrow to something a college lecture once told me.

"___ your view point is extremely elitist, yet your growing up in a post modern era."

and then the person drawing these lines is linking this with something else that was once said.

"If you take nothing else from this college, take that everyone else is stupid. You assume that everyone is on par with your intellect, but unfortunately you are going to have to spend your entire life watering down things so that others can understand."

And I'm thinking, aren't these things just slightly hypocritical of each other.

Either way I carry on and I'm pretty sure that, by the end of the day, the entire room is sick of my voice and my ego. Now I'm thinking about this. About me, and if I'm honest, I'd really like to drop my entire fabricated life, and just be me. But this is hard when people believe your lies. You can't easily turn around and say "I talk a lot of shit" without making a dick out of yourself.

So I'm wondering at what point did my personality become a blanket of incoherent lies?

i guess i'll die another day

In an attempt to drag myself down/to try and feel even a little bit like I used to before Friday, I play some love songs.

In the shower I try and feel remotely apathetic/depressed/lost, as the water cascades over my naked body; the warmth reminding me old of good love (not strangling unreciprocated love). Of course there is no reason for actually wanting to feel like this, other than knowing that I can feel like this if I want to.

I soon realise I feel nothing. I don't feel anything for anyone, I don't miss anyone, I don't want to please anyone, I don't want to see anyone, be with anyone, talk to anyone.Perhaps my faux independence has been substituted with independence.

I like this, but equally don't. It doesn't make for good reading. And so to make sure the next seven days are also equally uninteresting and depressing I intend to occupy myself with work. Hoping that I will buckle under the pressure of my impending deadline, and once again be able to feel something, anything at all.

let it happen

As I put the thin glass vessel to my lips, the cold, autumnal colour rushes in, and I feel a sudden rush of relaxation. This is something I have felt for four days now.

On Friday night I receive a message from Nos. I grab a bottle of vodka, half a bottle of rum and some cloudy lemonade and the next thing I know we're playing drinking games at hers. Pretty soon we head out to a gig. And by the middle of the evening the concoction of intoxicants has taken over my body. I find myself feeling alive once again. I feel fantastic, although (probably) look a state.

Then it's 4am. I pull the shattered credit card out of my pocket and palm the pieces into someones hand. Then it's back to Nos's. We send some stupid messages to weirdos on facebook, have a cup of tea, and retire.

Something has changed in me, and I know it.Even though my head is murky, day light hurts my eyes and voices ring in my ears.

Nothing can dampen this feeling. In truth, this is what it felt like before the feeling went away. It's like my body has taken a small part of whatever it was flowing in my blood stream and replicated it. I feel fantastic. I feel...love?

I slept

I don't know how long for, but it's the most beautiful feeling.

money can't buy this

Somewhere between the waking up and two dry Wheat-a-bix, the thought of a semi-normal day fails out of my head and explodes with the harsh reality of living with five brain dead morons.

Much of the day follows a usual pattern, with the exception that I am trying to avoid everyone I live with.On account that I can no longer be bothered; and my simple request for one night of unbroken sleep falls on deaf ears.

The promise of a cardio workout slips away and in an attempt to find some comfort in escape, I find myself on a bus heading across town. I arrive at a friends. I haven't seem him since I moved but already I know this is a chance to chill out, to be myself, my home self. The pleasure of a pressure-less environment is short lived and I find myself on the return journey home. Most of which is spent, not actually moving.

As I push the key into the door it appears that I have become quite the shadow. Breaking the silence I push over a stall covered in dirty plates, positioned at my door as some sort of epic revenge. The crashing a diversion as I slip into my room.

Pulling a collection of the designer clothes that I have acquired from the wardrobe they fall lifeless on the floor. Swapping my currently outfit for a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms, a grey polo (half the collar popped) and no shoes; the perfect backdrop for my tired, black-rimmed eyes. I bundle my clothes together,cradling them and descend six floors, to the wash room, the shock of the ice cobbles against my naked feet.

Realising that this area has also been invaded by the morons that I share my life with, I turn and exit as noticeably as I entered.

something, sometimes

Before I get to the bottom of the cup I fill it again. Each time noticing the heat from the new tea. Six cups later and I've yet to move. There is something relaxing and numbing about drinking leaf over bag.

The day, is full of pointless tasks, like hovering, tidying and cooking. I find the time, in between living and being alive to pop into town with a friend of mine. She asks me compose a reading list for her, which I happily oblige, and so we spend much of our time in Waterstones. (I find it hard to shop for books anywhere else? Book snobbery?)

We spend the good part of an hour, if not more, waiting for a bus. I don't mind this, but it clearly makes A uncomfortable. I remind her that its nice to do nothing, especially as we have Hitler breathing down our necks all the time.

I do a weekly shop, and buy Nytol. Where I ask the pharmacist for a bigger box. She looks at me sternly, and tells me that perhaps I need to see a doctor if its that bad, or perhaps I need something stronger. I ask if she stocks Valium. She's clearly not impressed.

The rest of the weekend is spent in bed, sadly with no one (although if anyone besides me where in it I'd probably tell them to fuck off),drinking Ceylon and reading. I think this: I haven't left the room for a good 72 hours and I've never been more content.

...here you go create another fable...

0058 - 0206

00:58 "I've got the latest copy of mens health for the economy lecture tomorrow"

01:01 "Good I'll bring the new glamor"

And so our lecture tomorrow is organised. In an attempt to pretend that the economy doesn't exist and an attempt to forget we are poor students we always end up at the back of the theater reading magazines.

After a day exploring a foreign, somewhat weird,city with a group of people I barely know. I'm feeling pretty shitty.Mainly because I'm tired. This morning the thought to wear proper footwear and a coat slips out of my head,and I find myself in my moccasin slippers and a tshirt. By the early evening my feet are killing me and my nipples are inverted.

Today I epically fail at trying not to be a snob. Never the less I'm happy to remind myself that there is still plenty of time to change this.

I also speak with Rugby Boy. Whom I tell that I have spent the last few weeks feeling vacant and numb. Apathetic. He tells me that, although he used to feel this, things for him are looking up. He's over the girl. I suggest, in a semi-sincere way, we marry, but receive no reply. Later I find out (from the horse's mouth at least) that things aren't so rosey after all, and his family are currently unstable. I feel quite sorry for him and secretly just want to give him a massive man cuddle...although he'd probably inhale me.

In the last forty minutes of the night,before I try and sleep, I discovered that being stupid helps you forget that you a horrible person. So spend my time throwing garlic mayo at my house mates, screaming and lounging on the sofa in my briefs, eating cheap Sainsburrys Basic crisps and cold pizza from a box on the floor. It's age...unknown...it's taste...likewise.

running up that hill

My mind is flickering again. I'm tired. I knew I'd be tired before I even went to sleep, but for some reason sleeping doesn't make me less tired. I'm thinking, thinking, what am I doing here, and finding it hard to focus on the man sitting at the other end of the table.

As various thoughts flash through my head I'm feeling pretty low, I start to well up. I want to step outside, and come back in and feel alive again, interested. But I don't. And I don't really have a reason for feeling like this.

Apart from every piece of group work I've done so far is shit, my models look like they were made by down syndrome kids, and no one in my group ever gives a shit. This course really is intense.

Today I've promised myself that I will start my routine again, and that I wont pretend to be a little rich boy anymore, that I'll try to make an effort with people. I have to say I'm doing quite well.

But then at the conference table I pull out my phone, and suddenly realise how uninterested and pretentious I must look. I go to text CH, but stop, and decide to text someone else instead.

"Why am I here?"

The reply I get is useless.

Later, at the same table, it appears we are debating three books that I have never read. Only everything is quiet and everyone is trying not to be noticed. So I take the lead, having decided to fuck it. I don't care if I look like a dick, or if my last project was a fail and everyone is laughing at the model, that I didn't make, sitting on my studio. I put on my best I'm-fucking-proud-to-be-British accent and shoot the bull. Pulling out the occasional quote.

"The eyes do not see things but images of things that mean other things"

I relate to this, and head off on a tangent. Realising that I probably look like a pretentious twat. I stop and let someone else speak, but no one does, and I look even more stupid. I flip to the front cover of the bound books and scribble that I must remember to actually read these books, then shove the bundle into my jean pocket. End the debate and go home.

Spending the rest of the night stuffing my face with pizza and harribo. I've never comfort eaten before, but I can see why its addictive.

the perfect stranger

At 4am my house mates come home. Hopelessly drunk. In the hope that I'll get some quality entertainment I wander into the hall to find a dozen or so bodies. Only a handful of which I am acquainted. Staying up for a few more hours I enjoy the stupidity of these drunks, until it all gets a little out of hand and somehow a rubbish bin is emptied into the third lobby.

On the train on the way home I busy myself by creating a large data file on my desktop, deleting it, and then creating it again. Close the lid of my notebook and through it hap-haphazardly into my holdall (later to find that by doing so I have removed a large chunk from the keyboard.) As the train pulls into the station the I can feel the pace of life changing with the pace of the engines. Somethings never change, and home is one of them. I've planned four days of nothing. A little break.

Feeling tired from the night before I kid myself that I might try and get some sleep, of course this doesn't happen. I wake up the next morning, pack the car and drive to the city. I've made two appointments. One to get my laptop fixed, and other to get my mullet fixed.

During the interval between the two events I wonder into a book shop. Pick the first title that comes into my head and ask the cashier to find it for me, which she does. She compliments my choice and I buy it. Carrying the book down the high street I adapt it, I carry it like its my bible, the perfect compliment to my already linear, cutting outfit. Today I've chosen to wear a charming grey Diesel Polo shirt, Black River Island jeans, a giant eagel belt buckle and my Ted Classics. I use the hood of my jumper to cover my giant mullet as I sit, in a rather self obsessed manner reading on a bench amidst the bussle of the city.

During my hair appointment, my hairdresser crowns me "king of puke" after I tell her a rancid story that happened a few weeks ago, and another that happened a few nights ago in the business district of the city in which I now reside. I like this title. Perhaps it will stick.

I meet the parents, we pretend to be frightfully well-to-do and go for lunch in an art gallery. I'm not big on anything that isn't a carbohydrate at the moment (although the reason for this is beyond me) and so order a roasted vegetable pasta dish. Most of which my father eats.

I shop with my mother. I think she likes to show me off. Look at my son who choses the most delightful outfits for me. We use her credit card and I buy some new clothes. Shortly realising the charming young man who cant use a till also cant take a security tag off a shirt. So I pull it off myself, ripping the shirt as I do so.

We have coffee, I drop my parents at their car and then race them home. Yes, three people from the same family does warrant taking two cars into the city.

This is probably one of the nicest days I have it a long time.

the devil and god are raging inside me

So I wake up today, content that, although I'm tired that today will be ok. That I'll refined my dharma and everything I used to believe, that tonight I'll go to the gym ,do some work, be normal. I stand in the shower wishing I can wash away the feeling of empty, loneliness, but its here to stay. The reason, is entirely my fault.

Because in my head I'm sure there are two people.Perhaps three. One is a crazy, egotist who enjoys nothing more than being a hedonist who likes to pretend that he is a high flying little-rich boy. Another is a realist. Who realises that there is no point pretending to be something that your not, and wishes for your sake that you can over come this. The other is a depressed, lonely, middle aged woman. Short, podgy with grey hair and a warm smile.Fake. Shes bitter, and vile. The words that come out of her mouth seem to juxtapose her welcoming appearance. She's lost everything she once had, and knows how cruel and misguiding the world is.

She aware that shes taking over, suffocating the other people in my head. But I'm quite welcoming, I like her.We all have a middle aged woman in us right?

My usual state, that of a mix between the three people in my head, is what creates a collage of my public self.

But for some reason today I'm more of a realist, and my mind is wandering. I start to think about all the stupid things I've done, all the people I've used, all the vile things that seem to fall out of my mouth without regard.

I reach for my phone to text CH; although I know I wont receive a reply. We haven't spoken recently and I just want to know hes ok. I truly care for him, more than I let on. But instead I'm greeted with the following:

1006 - Message received : " Why do you take everything so seriously? "

It's not CH.

This message angers me. I try to remember that as long as I'm capable of anger there are lessons to be learnt. But I ignore myself. I ignore the message and shove my phone back into my bag.

Do I really over-think everything?

...jesus christ that's a pretty face, the kind of face of someone I could save...

vaguely philosophical

Content with the idea that today I will actually do some work, I've decided a little procrastination can't hurt. Lets have a little story shall we.

Think back to a year ago. In some aspects nothing has changed but really everything has changed. I was at my first university, too immature to be there, and struggling in the situation I found myself. I dropped out and returned home. For the next six months or so I tried to forget that that time ever existed.

Since then, I found myself and lost myself, the constant up and downs of life seem to tumble us all in circles until we let go. I've become trapped in a down. Taking on the persona of...I don't know...a depressed office worker in Nothing Hill. The fact that I'm currently hideously deformed certainly effects my mood but it shouldn't. But being down, and resisting being ugly for the first time in my life, wont change anything.

It used to be that I was a spiritual new age Boho; I read a lot of new age books, with my 'shit detector' as Annie would call it switched on. I used to believe I could create my own mood, and govern my own situations, although now this seems somewhat out of my grasp. That time has past, and this sounds really gay (considering I'm still only nineteen and this is starting to sound like my autobiography), I like to think I've taken a few things with me from that stage in my life.Who knows perhaps I'll get back there sometime.

Today I woke up (which is always good), several scabs have fallen off my body and currently lay crustily in my bedsheets. Pleasant. But some how today feels different to yesterday and the day before. In reality, it's only in my head that it is different.

As I understand it there are two solid emotional states. Times when you're feeling good, and times when you feel like absolute shit. Everything in between is circumstantial. I guess, what I'm trying to say in a flowery way is, you can either sit and mope around, or you can do something to take your mind of feeling shit until you have something to make you feel better. This thought came to be today, in the shower. Where most of my good thoughts seem to grow. It's a shame that I don't have my family bathroom at university.

Give it a day or two and I'll probably feel rotten again. But that's life, and I know that you can pull yourself back up.

...the taste of ink is getting old...

day 3

Although you barely know me I feel apt to keep you up to date with my exciting antics. Did a drawing.Six hours.Excitement.May die by this time tomorrow.Bored.

...we sent out the s.o.s call.It was a quarter past four in the morning...

the beginning

And so it starts. The apparent temporary deformation has taken over. So I stand in the shower, hoping I can wash this inconvenience away, check I'm not bleeding, stare in the mirror.Decide I've lost all ability to look at least semi-attractive and go back to bed.

My drawing board has yet to move from the floor, where I positioned it to tempt me into working. When your as attractive as Mary Shelly's Frankenstein's monster the idea of doing pretty much anything seems insignificant. Tracing paper, 0.1 rotatory pens and sharp blades are the the only things excited to see you.

With any luck my remaining 26 anti-inflammatory pills should keep me feeling normal until next week, even if I wont look it for at least a month.

Shallow as a puddle?

...I got sunshine on a cloudy day, when its cold outside I got the month of may...