here is distant

brains thrown up living room walls

I drag a mouse all day to meet an end found in the heads of boys who are paid like men to get up from bed with work that's just some made up free time. I went to work for nine then did more at home till when the phone's clock still in my coat said it's a new day since thoughts of rest were had as if it could be done.

My weekends have boozy eyelids that open and close to the tune of drizzle. Now they're heavy to crackling spa waters and chilly feet. Saturday's chords close doors that open for post-post-coitus of washing up gone piled. There simply was no forks left. My grandchildren won't know about the ripped naan two days from Monday but I'll tell them about the Sunday Trading Act 1994. They might suggest I liver a better life or never start to exist.

The foetus months felt like only days. Incubation seemed so vividly memorable, until outside took its toll. I've seen old photographs and made new ones with all my camera phones. Snap, snap, stop. My time with no direction has given me seeds of natural selection. A warm welcome to the brood of years to come.

Acres of vapid humdrum spout wispy nothings and creeping misfortunes. In desolation, nature doesn't stop feeding itself. Elsewhere, the silent air hangs mightier: stirred not yet ignited; wincing, trapped in comfort; degrading but dying to feel. I've looked after my body with cookies, and my tumbling mind with a song.

Naked and sweating, bathing charmed for an hour. Now I'm clothed and blogging. It's funny how we, conversation and snoozing machines, choose to be entertained. Haha! Either we hurt each other because we hate ourselves, or my perceptiveness is a little off-kilter. Is my receptiveness a little too filtered? I'll receive a fuckton of Christmas. So please, let's enjoy this most wonderful time of the year.

My eyes were wide, my mouth was wider and squeaking erratic frenzied vowels. My brains were thrown up living room walls, where they dripped down towards the skirting boards. I wasn't distressed just fleetingly home alone, eating cereal and picking shit up.

Before too long, the lights went off again and a self was cobbled back together. As tasks of necessity became pasts of necessity, the rock and hard place metaphor came to mind. I considered it altogether ill-fitting, because if my hard place was a post-work engagement, that would make work my rock. I don't think so.

Faces in scenery and memories can be pierced by eye contact that consumes insecurity's otherness. I tell myself I'm not the only one who can make a smile, until I no longer need to. Lurking are reflexes to laugh and needs to scream. I want my composed fraught and contradictions spewed all over everyone. Join me in a cultural space, see me in a head place, find me in my dreams.

You can catch me exhaling in the foyer or saying supposedly something to an elsebody. My line between thinking and speaking can sometimes be dense, like the passing thoughts I have about you. Saying without thinking's vice versa is tantamount to rolling eyeballs up walls, and back down again. My self assurance is growing quickly, at the expense of a whimsiness drowned out by adults keenly performing poise. If we liaised soon, I could try to show you what remains of my wit.

Is my phone vibrating or narrating? A lousy story of itself or something more, like the making of plans that sit me on Thursday evening trains. The seat behinding me is reminding me I'm awake and have been all day. Let's tell each other what we dreamed when we were nine. Since then I've been being and thought thinking until one day, when neither shall be done.

When percentages get boring, my thoughts get rude. About eighty percent of the talk I do, bores me. To put it another way, I'm not a chronic worrier. Reading my scattered mind on the web, the lack of hidden depths could surprise you. I've no dark secrets although I must disclaim this post was sponsored by the winter rain.

Your room once was the deep forest and still wants to uncurl itself.

That's what my mother once told me before she wrapped me up in bed. I asked her what she meant and she replied with a level of assurance I had yet to see outside of her.

It doesn't really matter. The most important thing is that I'm already thinking about watching some more television.

All I could see was the ceiling and all I could think about was the hole in my head. No one else had one, why did I? I'll ask my mum tomorrow, I thought as I closed my eyes. But tomorrow never came. I passed away peacefully in my sleep and so avoided all the joy and pain of years to come. The lows wouldn't have scared me as much as the interchangement and hassle of everything arranging itself into recognisable form.

It's better that I died. The last thing I'd want to do years later is watch two policewomen accost a homeless man for sitting alone on a high street. I wouldn't want to watch it play out like a film, as I sip a cup of tea. The man telling a stern face of the law he doesn't want to move, that he shouldn't have to.

A police van arrives and two policemen get out, relaxed as if browsing for furniture. They're chatting, presumably about how they should exercise their power. A passer-by starts shouting at the homeless man, calling him a fucking junkie, whilst another films the scene on his phone.

The first becomes less a passer-by and more someone who's chosen to get involved. The police lead him away so he can pass by somewhere else. On departure he shouts at the cameraman, asking why he's filming the police with this fucking junkie. If the question wasn't so rhetorical, the answer might have been


One policeman puts on a blue glove because he thinks it will protect him from disease. The footage shows the homeless man being put in the back of the van but ends before the policepeople convene on the curb to chat. The women patrol off and the men drive the cage away. Fortunately, I died long before this could take place.

I'm not your friend. I've dressed pixel ducks. Giving a goose hid inside my Valentino white bag.

It's quite nothing. Just a spare tired. Honeygry as fuck because my Valentino white bag.

Go therverywhere. It's fucking noisy. Sad hours pm at my Valentino white bag.

Spill farcicles. Pleasure from Pretty. Stuffing skullenvoid into my Valentino white bag.

I call myself an agnostic, but religion has been a huge part of my life. This post shares my subjective experiences, and how they have shaped my opinion and attitudes towards religion.

My mother is a devout Catholic and my father is non-religious. Through my father's passivity and my mother's rigid beliefs, a strict religious homelife was cultivated for my three siblings and I. Catholicism was not super obtrusive to our childhoods, but it was presented as the unquestionable way of life. We were brought up with clear versions of right and wrong, and family prayer was daily. On Sundays we'd go to church, and then to my grandparents' house to gossip about it.

As a child, I'd have no reason to doubt God's existence. At school I coloured in Jesus and sang songs for him. Ideologically, there wasn't much worth thinking about for someone who'd rather be climbing trees. It's handy I didn't overthink the philosophical implications of Catholicism, because the concept of hell would have been fucking terrifying. You will burn for eternity if don't go to church on a Sunday, unless you admit it to a dog-collared man in a box.

Any cynicism as a child would have been quickly quashed by my mother, who viciously feared non-belief as an evil to banish from the mind. She bound tightly together faith and duty, to the point that my beliefs were so unquestionable they weren't worth thinking about. Religion became something to tolerate rather than to enrich. As many millions will know, getting through lengthy religious services as a child requires a handful of coping strategies. Church became a place not express my own thoughts, but to just be with them (they were mainly about football or later, nsfc). I think this is how my over-passivity developed.

The first Sunday I moved out of home to go to university, I didn't go to church. That was my first opportunity to make my own decision, and it was made based on control, rather than on religiosity. I had felt coerced when living at home, powerless in the weekly situation of being woken at 7am for church. Not going to church is a mortal sin, which means that it can lead to damnation if never repented. However, eternal punishment wasn't on my mind as I enjoyed my new Sunday lie-ins. The only unease I felt related to how I was disappointing one of my parents.

My mother's response was a mixture of disappointment and passive aggression. Whereas my father could cohabitate by being passively non-religious, I was made to feel that I still had to be passively religious. I avoided talking about religion, as to do so would be exposure to either information bulletins about how much God loved me, or scathing comments expressing I was weak, blind, or taken in by the devil. My mother often reiterated the importance of religion, but she too wasn't overly keen to open a constructive dialogue. I guess worse than knowing your son isn't religious, is hearing it said out loud, and feeling powerless to change it. I think this is how my fear of confrontation developed.

As much as religion has been primarily an unhealthy familial psychological battle, I have had enough time in pews to give the concept itself plenty of thought. The only outlook that makes sense to me is agnosticism. Science cannot disprove God, because God is not scientific. You can make historical assumptions about religion's main characters, but you can't make a scientific argument for or against their supernaturality. It comes down to faith, which simply some people have, and others don't.

I question why I should believe the one religion I was born into. To submit myself to Catholicism, I'd have to surrender agency, which paradoxically I should apparently be using to get into heaven. The conundrum is between choice and dogma: I now cannot have the latter without exercising the former, and if accepting the latter, I must surrender the former.

But the reality of any personal relationship with a macro institution is vastly more complicated than can be reduced to a logical argument like the one above. What it really comes down to is personal experience and from where one draws meaning. Even within Catholicism's supposed dogma, I have seen people with a variety of beliefs and attitudes. Religion seems to be able to attract people for different, sometimes contradictory, reasons: community or escape; love or fear; passion or repression; learnedness or submissiveness.

In my life so far, God has not revealed himself to me, and quite frankly, I find the whole thing completely uninteresting. If God wants me to change my mind, then it is totally within his or her power.

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