here is distant


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.


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.


We're on the same page

Different book

Same genre

Yeah, horror

I will never ever jump out on you. I will lie about your sofa, ceilings and mind, if you don't mind. I'll creep in circles for longer than I'll linger under your thumb or arms. I'll say nothing. The only way you can be sure I'm even there, is because I'll consume your toast.


Experience 26

Context Straight white male

Positioning United Kingdom

Type Romantic

Occupation Poise

Dreams Grass

Fears Conservatories

Blog referred to as Post-teen crap

Navigate Click my hashtags #Clout #Narration #Drivel #Journal #Gallery

You can Subscribe

Every afternoon chunks of lethal metal spill out of the city, and they're all mad at each other. The evening commute can be frustrating behind the wheel, but in this traffic I find escapism. My bicycle peddles get me past Sat Navs telling the poor to take the next left towards ludicrous APR and the rich in leather seats they love more than their ex-wives. It's my window of life, away from days reserved at a desk and nights of undeserved rest. I pass Ubers stuck up each other's asspipes and feel the wind in my face as I dart by cars and buses crawling in a slow motion notion. It feels good overtaking something 10 times my length. They all want to be me or I just think they do. I don't care which.


Throw acorns at tree trunks, you growing dandelion. Show to a stranger your strength, for it finds a natural conclusion to something now quietly fantastic. Let emerge your elephant lighter, burn a goofy napkin, and watch it ash to the dreams of another duckling. For this catches neither the start nor the end of the tethered lily pads floating hard on tarmac. It's more tarmac of shiny dust than of crying working hearts. We find coverage in an unknown. Until we loose it, again.


When an April day suggests summer is coming, the aroma of expectation is often sweeter than the warmth at the season's height. I took full advantage of the beautiful day by staring at a database with Julie from accounts, unironically saying things like

that's the £7,000 we need to isolate

Julie would nod like a prick. So I left. There's no better place to escape the city than the square in the centre that badly masks grey with a patch of green. On the wall sat the centrepiece to this love story, like a lonely flower. I sat down at a distance too close for a stranger, but too far for a friend.

I was in love with you, you know.

She continued to stare at the ground, as I nervously ran my fingers between each other, not knowing where they should settle at a time like this. It had been around two years since I had last seen her. I nervously blurted noises like a donkey with stage fright.

I've seen how sad you are on twitter. I always thought we could have been sad together. Or we could be happy like you are on Instagram.

The tourists and pigeons that were everywhere weren't constrained by a lunch break. They ambled around, avoiding each other, aimlessly searching for food. I looked up, to hear what she had to say about my madness. But she wasn't there. Because she never was. And neither was I. Because I was on the way back to my desk.


I went scrolling through Facebook and no matter how many times I refreshed newsfeed, it said

We have nothing to show you right now, cunt

I thought this was weird because I have three hundred thousand friends. I also thought the use of the word “cunt”, would be the kind of thing Facebook would avoid. I worried I was missing out on bespoke brand content and humorous reinforcement of my political views. I started to shake as I worried how acquaintances were, if they were doing okay in their lives.