[34]

Numb eyes. Numb everything. Out of sight, out of mind.

This post is titled...

...Fuck off world.

Dear world. Please leave me alone.

You fill my head with so much stress. So much angst. So little focused thought. It's clouding every ounce of my judgement and ever facet of my being.

I thought I knew. But now I know I knew what was wrong. Now I am surrounded by noise that is of no relation to me. Noise with no association, no emotional attachment, it just buzzes. Instead of wanting to save it in a jar, I want to flatten it. I feel as though i'm the one in the jar with sound echoing and reverberating around the glass interior. I am so angry. I am so angry in my head and it's seeping out of my corners. It's become visible and leaving a trail of destruction in its wake.

This is pathetically self indulgent.

Your sincerely,
P.G.M.Answers (Please give me answers)

[33]

Do I know how to be happy?

[32]

I have no answers for you.

[30]

[To love is powerful. Opens up possibilities. Closes doubts. Questions answers. Answers questions.]

You know. You know those two sides. The dark seperated from the light. The oil sitting above the weighted level. One happy visible in actions, movements, expressions, presence, the other is the sadness lying in a mixture of words marked for all to see. I poured myself in to that sadness. Watched dreams die in longing. Can you read those sad stories in my eyes? Will you hold us and feel the presence of scars? Do you understand that a part of me will always be lost in that silent sadness?

Understand and this is real.

My heart is full of you and only you.

[29]

Walk past me, tell me to smile. I'll look up at you and think 'yes you're right' and beam.

Where was I?
Soaring in and out of reality, watching the clouds form, part and break, delving back [and forwards] into longings.

'I know she is coming
I know she will look
And that is the longing
And this is the book.'

[28]

Figured it out. Or more guided in to reality.

Life revolves around key moments. These determine us. Mold us. Shape us in to the beings we are today. I believe that many stories are written in our lifetimes, and as life progresses each story layers, picks up speed carrying the story before it. They evolve in to masses. Heavy force fields. Miniature suns. Our life choices become planets. Orbiting. Paths dictated by the strength of sun.

Personal example:
Book 1: Childhood,
Sun: Divorce
(Fear. Abandonment. Loss. Jealousy. Shy. Reliant imagination)

Book 2: Teenager
Sun: Family fear. Body discomfort.
(Crying. Shouting. Mirrors. Dialing tone in hand. Swimming costume. Shame. Don't touch her)

Book 3: Youth
Sun: Love found & lost
(Entwined lives. Happy. Joy. Roundhay Park hill. Suffocating. Dependent. Families)


So absorbed in this last story, a bid to understand it involved tracing each line back to the first chapter, the initial paragraph - the very scene it opened on. Until I lived in it. Literally in it. And yet blissfully unaware until today; triggered by one full orbit.

Chapter 1: She stepped off a train in Kings Cross. Drink. Blue skies. Brown corduroy. Grass. Orange youth hostel walls. Apple. Smiles. Black rabbits. Regents Park. Coach station. Hold. Home.

Did I think that by living near Kings Cross, by working in Kings Cross that I could somehow erase it...build new memories to papier mache over it smothering it in to distant recollection? Or was the attempt to re-live it. Re-live it over and over again. Punishing myself. Do I blame myself? Is it some sick means to remind myself of love lost, errors made, regret untrue?

Last Chapter: She stepped off a train in Kings Cross. Office. Blueberries. Old flames. Camden. Home. New flames. Friends. Explore. Regents Park. Dog. Him. Birthday book:'The Time Traveller's Wife'. Realisation. Home.

New book.
Chapter 1:

[27]

Feel like I live on one side of a glass wall. Glass so thick, sound cannot even permeate the surface. To smash the wall would be destructive. Nothing good comes from destruction; wise to that. I live here. Content. However in minds silent eye I only see half a world. As reminder, a vivid reflection baring all features, hiding no unwanted blemishes, a perfect symmetry of all that is and all that will be.

Does it have to be this one sided?

[26]

Delved in to my drafts. The posts which didn't quite make the cut. Located a little sparrow of a reflection haphazardly formed years ago as I perched in an unfamiliar coffee shop in a now familiar row of St Pancras shops.

"A pot of tea, gorgeous ceramic cup (that narrowly escaped abduction in to my bag) and a table within a café providing a view across the lower St Pancreas International floor. As the world walked by I pretty much sat gazing. It’s incredibly therapeutic.
Stood in the door read the sign ‘....'"


Can't for the life of me recall the sign. I photographed it. Lost it. It was poignant and yet obviously not so memorable enough for it to stick. I was lazy. So lazy. Photographing. Nowadays photographing happens behind eyes, so recollection is not determined by something somebody said, or in this case something written, it exists in a snapshot of scenery touched with fading colouring. In turn tapping in to the internal recording software [o] triggering the whole scene to play [>] - so touchable. A shift to the past called upon by the present. [stop]

Does THAT make sense?

I found a page. Or more the page found me. No. Page found itself. It's the same page, yet it exists in two totally differing worlds. Guess I'm sharing a page, or attempting to share a page. Having absence from page sharing I'm unsure of the rules - who writes first, who turns the page, who determines when to break, when to full stop and capital letter?
Suppose investing in two pens may be a starting pt.

[25]

This time of year. The knot returns and tightens. A blanket of sadness falls and holds...not in comfort.

[24]

Today I was heard. A snippet of an identity: http://bit.ly/n02UUw


Solidarity on the steps of St Paul's
Monday 24 October 2011

Support and solidarity are clearly apparent on the steps of St Paul's. It gives me hope that with like-minded individuals peacefully protesting for their rights and beliefs, and the future of our country doesn't reside in a generation of lazy and opportunistic thugs, as they have been labelled, but in youth with a strong voice to be heard. I can't help but borrow lyrics from our much-loved childrens' classic Mary Poppins as I stand on the steps of St Paul's, "Though [their] words are simple and few, feed the birds, tuppence a bag..." Wealthy pockets should distribute what is owed.
Rosie Bloom
London NW1

[23] You're Where Dreams Go to Die

Pocket all reference. All memory. All recollection.

Once again dipping in and out of consciousness. Falling in and out of misplaced/mistimed seasons.

She's still chasing him. Lifting those rocks. Double taking at strangers. For a ghost. She - that small flutter hidden within, the strangest of strangers. When will she stop. Just stop. Look up. Stop glancing back. Look forward [To what?]. Catch up with me [She won't]. Cut it off. Keep shutting it off. Face his demise.

Leave it in the dark. The pitch black. Let it drown in emptiness.

[22]

Not intelligent enough to stop thinking.

[21] It's Just The Radio

----------------------------------------------------------------
Playing my sad guitar.
----------------------------------------------------------------

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.


----------------------------------------------------------------
Playing my happy guitar.
----------------------------------------------------------------

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.

[16] Commuting

It has been a while fellow Earth lodgers.

What brings me back to this vortex of self indulgence? Well, I doubt I'll ever really cut the tugging strings. Temptation is too strong.

This morning, commuting. Driving to work as per usual. Down the M62. For the first time in a long time the ant line was highly apparent. Queing to take formation. None of these neighbouring cars were friends. None containing people I know. Yet we had one known common trait; we were heading in the same direction. Physically, not metaphorically.
I find it sad. We live in an age of isolation. Of individual shelter.

Guessing the backstory of a driver is a favourite game of mine. Their characteristic driving skills provide the basis mostly.
Man in suit, taking his time in the middle lane, adequate distance from the car in front. Highly controlled. Life is a line he draws. Business orientated no doubt with a wife he barely sees, no children and unquenchable thirst to achieve but unsatisfied with the breadth of his options in which he can do so.

The young man who rolls down his window, flicks his cigarette out and then proceeds in cutting across the front of my car in order to reach the fast line in which the brick falls and away he zooms. Inconsiderate, no care for his surroundings, potentially unfortunate childhood and an unknowing or even comprehension of what life is, what he holds and the potential he has to make a difference, somehow.

Then there is me. Middle lane. Analytical of everything in reaching distance of eyesight. Flick the wing-mirror down to check I'm not insane and that there is someone in the car listening to my thoughts. Curious of what lies horizontally in the fields, bored of the vertically unchallenging tarmac which proceeds.

Commuting. Tic tock. Tic tock.

[15]

Hooked on time. Obsessed. Truly I am.
Circling notions. Of beginnings. Of ends. Of long extended middles.

Attempting to understand the world. Before the world. Beyond the perimeter of our world.

The tips of the leaves lead me right back to the roots.
Past. Present. Future.
Relative. Time. Science.

How to make the best of a mistake?
How so much turmoil exists in the world when living is amazing. Physically, and scientifically amazing.
And yet some are so self absorbed in bubbles - [Round, iron leaded bubbles] - that they cease to comprehend the outcome of their actions. Infliction of pain. Ignorance.

A blind eye.
Gold plated segments are weighing the world down. Gravity must feel the strain. Surely.