here is distant

The radio blares love and hurt to a room where everyone talks only of ancillary revenue.

It's a room that makes me care about the stupidest shit.

Sometimes I open my mouth and a sentence with the word 'liaise' comes out and it won't go back in.

Sometimes I close my mouth and grope a spreadsheet for one or seven hours.

I spend the day around people who care deeply about ancillary revenue.

Everyone is so bloody insecure because everyone is so bloody insincere.

The whole thing is ridiculous and everyone pretends it isn't.

I want to lie on the grass in the sun.




I'm on a train

I was checking the latest Instagrams today.

Suddenly the clouds relieved themselves of rainwater, and all the drops started covering my phone like wasps on a honey jar.

The rain was heavier than metal and soon I was elbow deep in the junk, with the latest Instagrams looking blurrier than usual.

They were leaving the screen and drifting slowly downstream.

I dried off and called tech support but they told me it was outside call centre opening hours, and to ring back next month.

I'll have to try and fix it tomorrow because I need my phone to check emails and do other important things.




#TalesfromSocialMedia

Runner: Hey man. New personal best today. You know what, I'm actually really looking forward to this marathon.

Non-runner: Good man, I'm glad it's going well for you.

Runner: Oh. You haven't sponsored me yet.

Non-runner: Ah, yeah, no I haven't. But just out of curiosity... What are you running from?

Runner: I'm running for Childline.

Non-runner: No, what are you running FROM?

Runner: Running from? from the start line to the finish line? It's all for a good cause.

Non-runner: No, what are YOU running from?


I bought a treadmill when I was 17 with money I earned from working at Pizza Hut. I'd try to use it 5 times a week and kept a diary to record how much I ran. A few weeks in, I picked up a groin injury and couldn't walk for a bit. In recent years, I have intermittently tredmilled when back at my parent's house, but pushing myself is unpleasantly gruelling when doing something boring as fuck. The fact that frequent jogging risks long-term joint problems and muscle injuries, makes the thought of pounding the ground even bleaker.

This is going to sound like sponsored content but it's not, it's just something that I love. There is something that has got me running 5km every week and that thing is parkrun. parkrun organise free, weekly, 5km timed runs open to everyone. They take place all over the world but are most prominent in the UK, where there are 609 parks that host parkruns every Saturday morning for hundreds of runners. You bring a bar code that is scanned at the finish line, so your individual time is uploaded to the website.

parkrun brings runners and non-runners together; I hate running but I love parkrun. Running a timed and recorded run with other people, provides motivation for what otherwise is an incredibly dull activity. For me, 11am on a Saturday is one of two scenarios: I'm either refreshed and breakfasted after my morning parkrun, or in bed feeling shit and hungover.




I tried blogging about something I feel passionate about but it's come across too preachy.

So I opened it with a stolen sketch that I like.

I'm always living in the moment. I wanted to go swimming to think some things in my life over. But all I could think about was

• my stroke, • my breathing • whether I was going to fast or too slow • the time • the romantic preferences of the girl in the next lane • whether I was swallowing too much water • how I was finding it more rewarding than the alternative of another Friday can.

I used to walk to school and my imagination would bounce with impossible things that could never happen. I used to look forward to things. The present was just something to endure before a main event, some palpable light at the end of the tunnel bound to a point in time. At night, I would lie in bed dissecting the day, thinking over how everything happened, and what was important to me. It's sad to think that the social networks and microcultures that my teenage life revolved around, have no relevance in 2019.

So I don't, like everything else I leave in the past. I lay in bed last night thinking how empty my head was. Then I thought about changing my position. Then I thought about taking a drink of water. Then I thought it would be nice to fall asleep. Then I thought how empty my head was. Nowadays, my dreams are about the only place I can find my hopes, loves and fears.

It would be nice if they made it to hereisdistant.co.uk sometime, as I'm running out of steam with these low-spirited themes that have infected my posts.




I can be emailed

hereisdistant@gmail.com

Hello. I am lonely. I don't have any good friends and can't confidently communicate.

I always said what I thought the other person wanted to hear to the detriment of developing a personality. I was scared to say opinions or divulge experiences, so now I don't have either. I spend my interactions avoiding personal questions.

I don't have a bad opinion of myself. I have a disconnect, a cocktail of superiority and self-loathing. I feel like a spectator among a group and I don't respect authority. If my boss tells me to do something, I just think it's funny how power displays itself in interpersonal communication. I hate confrontation, so I subvert it when I can.

I find it hard to care about anything and react badly to people who do. I will test their point of view by teasing or questioning them. I don't know how to be around someone if they're being earnest.




I'm not always so ugly.

I

don't
put

any

effort

into

making

plans

for Friday night,

then I get sad when it comes and I have nothing made.

Alarm clocks don't work for me, so I season a duck and throw it in the oven at 130°C before I go to bed. By the time 7am rolls around, the fucker is burning his quack off, and the smell awakens me from slumber like clockwork. Still half asleep, I rescue the bird, which also prevents the flat burning down in a nasty fire. I wouldn't want that.

I hop in the shower. A few years ago I stopped using shampoo as it damages the tips of delicate hair fibre strands. I use only olive oil now, which makes my hair glow throughout the day, and enriches the scalp roots. I use my time in the shower to relax and think about the things I need to do that day.

Breakfast time. My duck gets grated and added to scrambled eggs. It gives them a crispy finish that compliments my toast, which I have raw. If I'm squeezed for time, as I often am, I'll have an orange. If not, the oranges are squeezed with lime, tasting more than fine. I couldn't possibly start my day without a glass of freshly squeezed juice. I leave for work at 8am.

I spend my first waking hour doing exactly the same stuff as I did the day before. I don't know if I should be trying to develop good habits, or making an effort to introduce some spark and spontaneity. People feel defensive or proud over their routines, but in my opinion, they are the epitome of comfort-zone; easy to fall into, but hard to crawl out of. Even though they can be productive and healthy, I find them tedious and depressing.

I've had a job since I was 16 and I've never pulled a sickie. In principle, I'm not against them (depending on your job of course). I always wanted to go someplace barbarically ludicrous on my employer's watch.

“The 17.15 to Liverpool Lime street has been cancelled. This is due to a member of the train crew being unavailable”

It's annoying when your train gets cancelled but if a train driver is off climbing a fucking mountain or something, I say fair play. Sadly, the reality is that he's probably caring for his sick spouse, or trapped in bed with mental illness. eek. And the cancelled train probably has some knock on consequences slightly more serious than a suit being late to his meeting.

But I'm a carefree and healthy young person, so I don't think about these things.




Thank you for reading, I hope your day so far is going better than you hoped.

My uncle says that whatever we post to Facebook is there forever.

Will this post be here forever, or will it die with me?

It's scary to think that there will be a time when someone uses my name for the last time.

It's scarier to think that whoever that person is will not know or understand me, just as I will not know or understand them.

On day number 25 without sex it got to the point where I googled 'involuntary celibacy' to see if I could coin the phrase on this blog. It shook some sense into me when I found out that 'involuntary celibacy' (or incel for short) is of course the name of a misogynistic online subculture responsible for mass shootings and hate crimes. In my defence, even counting the days since my last encounter made me feel uncomfortable.

I guess then that blogging provides me some healthy self-moderation. At worst, this blog will at least document my slow decline into a new identity defined solely on who won't sleep with me. One day I'm googling involuntary celibacy, the next I'll be using the word horny in my opening exchanges with new people, and etching tally marks into the side of my wardrobe for every rejection I receive. At best however, this blog will allow me to identify and overcome the self-pity and self-loathing that seems to be festering in my writing at the moment.

In other involuntary news, I found myself at church for reasons beyond my control this week. There, a middle aged woman neatly arose from her seat, glided out of her bench, and headed towards the front of the church. The congregation said not a word as her polished shoes walked purposely up the aisle. The priest watched her as she bowed towards a supernatural presence. Standing at a microphone, she began to read in a well-spoken voice, that lacked the regional intricacies found in the hiding tongues that sat before her.

When this perishable nature has put on imperishability, and when this mortal nature has put on immortality, then the words of scripture will come true: Death is swallowed up in victory. Death, where is your victory? Death, where is your sting? Now the sting of death is sin, and sin gets its power from the Law.

It's fucking surreal that people sitting in silence, listening to someone read these words, is something that happens. I don't find it disturbing or worrying, it's just a weird thing to observe.




My mother has a very strong faith which I did not inherit, despite its prominence in my childhood. I will be devoting a blog post or two towards the impact of religion on my parental relationships. I've had many hours in pews to brainstorm those pieces.

My flatmate and I share a friendship because we have the same disapproving outlook towards others. We both lean considerably left, but typically I will give benefit of the doubt to anyone who has done right by themselves whereas he will give the bod to anyone who has done right by a liberal ideology.

He's a music student and I attend some artistically pleasing gigs courtesy of his disposition. Such as tonight. I will admit that I did very liberally pre-drink and felt self-conscious about wanting a San Miguel at the bar, amoungst a large audience who were being quite quiet for the support act.

We played two games of pool after the gig. I do not feel like going to work in eight hours.