[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

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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.