[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.

[14] 2010

Numbers. Countdown to 12am. It's all numbers. 2010 is yet another number. Another day.

So here we stand. Or sit in my instance, contemplating what the year ahead will bring.
I envisage points, points of which are already set in stone yet in between the inconsistently spaced pointers is absolute emptiness. A pure blank canvas. Much like a flat, unbroken carpet of snow just waiting for that first imprint.

I can feel the momentum building.

[13] ...

Cold knuckles clenched release dust over dew,
extinguishing the crotchet of watery rotation.
Relive the rise and fall of shifting identity no more.
Now one less drop descends.
one less leaf feeds,
and one less murky puddle forms.
Open palms walk freely, clear of broken stone.

[12] Seeds

Hello darkness my old friend. I've come to talk to you again...

Just because something is dark, does not necessarily denote a sense of pessimistic turmoil. Echoing silence can be bliss. Contemplation. Room to breathe.

Summer, oh lovely summer. It's been fantastic and it's still rolling. Shortly to depart for a spot of grape picking in the South of France.

Nearing the end of undergraduate education, thoughts are somewhat encompassing the next move. Planning has become somewhat alien to me so nothing is concrete, however emigrating is a high possibility - Where...? who knows. Love the simplicity of France, the culture of Prague, would certainly like to experience living in Cuba. I guess it's irrelevant where I land. The crux of it all is claiming my own pad. I'm craving the independence of arriving in a completely new city, finding my own place, new friends. Adequate distance from family.

Of course there's the income situation. Freelance? Start my own company? Teach? It's all very exciting. My ideal circumstance would be this:
- Move South - birds do it so why not me?!
- Teach in a primary school
- Illustrate children's books part-time
-... with the view to publishing my own illustrated book...
- Find a cosy little flat
- During the summer holiday's travel

I think I'll take this away with me and muse on it a little further...within the sound of silence...