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.
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. 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 arranged. 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.
Today, faces in scenery and memories were pierced by eye contact reminding me I'm not the only one who can make me smile. Under my reflex to laugh is a need to scream out in composed fraught. I want everyone to watch me in a cultural space but find me in my dreams.
Two youths approached me as I locked up my bike. They warned me how easy it was to break locks and that the city centre isn't a safe place to leave your bike. They demonstrated the ability of their feet by dislodging some wheels that were apparently better than mine, due to their suspension. Not one for aggro, I smiled trying to banter, asking them not to steal my bike. I was trying to mix mature poise with youthful cheek. Of course, they could outdo me on the latter: I was undeniably the owner of a midrange commuter bike.
I should have just hopped back on and parked it somewhere else. Pride is a strange thing, I thought as I walked away from my locked bike, almost certain that they would soon pleasure in its demise. I was meeting a girl at the pub, intending to break up with her after a couple of months of seeing each other.
If my bike dies, so be it, I deserve it
I thought as I avoided the pressing subject, and her eyes.
This is horrible
We hugged on the street. It was cold and there was potentially a long walk home.
This girl is hurt because of me
We walked in opposite directions away from each other forever. The good news was I soon found my bike untouched. I felt relief cycling home, on two counts. As I showered before work the following day, I thought about crap like upsell and cross-sell. It was a big day coming up in the office.
I have been a blogging for a year now and I can see myself continuing for years to come. In the coming year I will continue to deep dive into today's challenging issues, and I'll of course keep up the life hacks and easy-to-follow advice to make you the best YOU. Here's some of my favourites from the year just gone:
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. I've been busy thinking about things I don't care for, such as percentages. 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 November 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 my second nose. No one else had an extra 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 witnessing of everything continuing to arrange itself between recognisable forms for years to come.
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.