[21] It's Just The Radio

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Playing my sad guitar.
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You know, insanely tired - lack of sleep due to frequent traffic under my window.
Everything sounds louder.
Everything appears slower.
Everything feels disconnected.

I can stand anywhere and I will see different lives in an opaque, fluid like surface living alongside my own solid line. Different lives of my own. Not others. Overlapping. Creating this textured layered complexity. Lives which continued existing once their existence ceased to prolong in my current reality. The 'what if' lives. The hindsight lives.
They don't exist permanently. Times of solitude one will skip past unknowingly, merge ever so slightly with my reality and then fold back in to the backdrop. A face, a time, a place, a sound, sight, smell - initiates it. Not a memory. These aren't triggers for memory - they are triggers in to parallel present continuance.


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Playing my happy guitar.
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You know - elated. Recovered from restless nights.
Everything sounds harmonious.
Everything appears brighter.
Everything feels warmer.

I'm here. A little more integrated in to the goings on of the capital. A participator rather than an onlooker. May have found the right shoes to guide my lost feet.

[20]

Electronic book. Robotic. I see them on the train. Everywhere.

So wrong.

[19] Control

I sat in my coffee shop. Sketchbook. Pilot Pen. Small white coffee. And a window.

Into the sketchbook piles random thoughts.
A timeline. Present to future.
If you could see your future reflected, would you mirror it in the present?

No.
You know what happens. No need to walk that path. Why the want to know?
Knowing = Reassurance.
However. We want the unknown.

Yes.
You know what happens. You like what happens.
However. Placing a foot wrong may destroy your future.
Knowing = Fear.

Control.
That's what this all is. The want to control. If you were the only factor, you would have full control. However you are not the only factor.
Control = Selfish.

I control myself. Lifestyle. Job. Where. When. How. What I allow people to see of me. Is this a selfish control? Why do I feel the need to control myself?

Fear.
When. When did this isolation and control commence?
A string of close relationships terminated. Initiated at 3 years old. Goodbye daddy. Last heavy relationship at 20 years old - he left me.
[So many valued strong relationships - people who mattered - gone]

Fear of sleepovers at friends houses. Fear that my mother would vanish if I left her side for a prolonged period.
This is my pattern. This is why I am why.
Fear of abandonment.

Where am I now?
Still in fear?

I cannot maintain a relationship if I am wanted.
I can only involve myself in relationships with those who don't want a long term affair. I know they will leave.
No surprise + no unexpected hurt = Knowing.

I will leave you if you want me. I will leave the moment you commit. Because I cannot take further heartache. I cannot allow myself to let you in.
I will reject before you are lost.

Empty coffee cup. Closed sketchbook. Embrace the world.

[18]

There was a man. Frail. Slightly ahead of him, his dog. Equally well lived. They crawled the perimeter of a lake I used to know. Often I'd see them. Slowly breathing in the freshness of their daily routine. Open sky.
Not so bright. Lightness blocked out by two black crows hovering above. Mirroring each movement. Mocking the grounded footsteps both the man and dog respectively fell in to. Shadows of blackness. Nature on the brink of dutifully fulfilling its role.

I returned to my lake. I did not see either. The inevitability of darkness lurking stealthily. To this day that is sadness. That is the zenith of all sadness.

I wonder. Wonder if that is a glimpse of my life to be. Scuffing the same soil. Holding on to a muted friend. I don't foresee a man holding on to me. Too inside my own head. Too cold. Too disconnected from love. I've forgotten what it means. How to allow it. Those who offer it, it's not taken. Too easy. If it's too easy, there's a catch.

Fear. Fear that as I progress through life I am increasingly shutting myself off from feeling. Complexities I know. Four-sided simplistic boxes are far more appealing, easier to stack and organise accordingly. They're moulded for ease. Slip effortlessly in to society. My Russian Doll format however leaves no clear pattern to utilizing space effectively. Has to be precise. Difficult to comprehend.

Simplicity. Crave it. Want to be it.

[17]

There's something here to be said. Read.

Lay it on the page.

Sense the familiarity. Vacant words over caffeine - I'm hot. You're cold - filling the void to ease in to that comfortable state. That state of trust. Progress a weighty full stop in to a string of ellipses and inevitability question the motives of our arrangement.

What good is a love affair, if love fails to permeate the very act of expression?
What good is knowing someone, if surface restricts access to depth?
Why love someone, who's only knowing is an affair?
If love is depth. Surface is an act.

The simultaneous equation of complicated relationships.