everything here has purpose. it is as true as i can make it, which is maybe half
it's been a while, myspace. nearly a year - i'm twenty now and it feels much the same. i drift because everything is the same, every experience every moment has been done before. the only originality is our thoughts; i don't speak much because i hate small talk, tedious thoughts about other people and the events of wasted days. i like large talk, talk that sounds like it matters, that we say as if we can change something.
i'm bad at starting conversations, though. it's a problem. my friends talk and talk and say nothing and i say nothing except when i talk.
break lines for thought
welcome to my world. i live in wootton bassett; it's tired and bored and old. we spend our lazy days full of drugs, with clouded heads comprehending nothing. sobriety is another drug and the world feels the same whatever happens. this town is beautiful and wonderful and fatal.
i shall tell you what has kept me going, the things i have needed in my life. i love music and cigarettes and comic books and escapism. i love pretending to be someone else. i love the faceless internet. i love discussion and debate and thought all in one. i love my friends. i love you. this is what got me through the dark times - when i used to be a little fat kid.
this is fractured and out of sorts and doesn't mean what you think it means; i write in my own thoughts, they are the other half of this novella. i say i don't care what other people think and i lie. i would dearly like to know. my goal is understanding; i want to be understood. i want to know what goes on behind your eyes, why won't you tell me?
i want to know your thoughts and feelings, the guilty little impulses, the things you shouldn't do. i want to know what you think of me and of the world. i want to know about altruism and apathy and all things in between.
did i mention i love music? i used to play the violin and gave up. that was a long time ago. now music makes my life; i'd rather be blind than deaf. the colours of this world are all grey and washed out. everything is twisted metal and broken dreams. in music is everything fresh and clean and wonderful and intense. i like beautiful words. i like tunes that carry emotion and thought and images.
i hate drum and bass. repetitive and simple and cold emotionless machine.
what else is there? i owe an apology to the world; i am but me and can do nothing else. i do not gel with what is acceptable and what is standard; i am the goblin in the corner hiding notes in your pockets, i am the out-of-tune singer in the streets. i am the youth of today, the product of this nevercare culture - love the drugs, hate the violence - the effect of society's fucked up cause. i am the scruff (this is ma trooth) and the hoodie, standing on the street corners smoking my drugs and eating my pills.
i want to be understood, but if you misunderstand then i don't care. i will not hide. i know what i do; drugs are my friends because i know them too well. we've been through the dark times together, they wouldn't dare hurt me.
i like to think i can write. i like to dream about the perfect future. i never write about it. i set down the socially acceptable, avoiding the heart of the matter, then scrawl the painful truth where nobody will see and leave it on the pub table for a barmaid to find and throw away.
romance isn't dead but it's starving; the jail i keep it in is a dank and forbidding fortress.
i speak not just of love but of grace in motion, of beautiful words, of speaking poetically and seeking analogy and all the things that are laughed at by the modern age. i speak of honour and decency and how they hide with the rats in the filthy straw of my mind. i was born centuries too late.
the analogy is appropriate, as deeply as it goes.
i'm doing this because i was told. i think i was convinced of the need to rewrite; it's possible i am just willing to do anything for her.
i don't know if i am happy. sometimes i think i might be. other times i think i couldn't be. my emotions are muted and grey like the rest of my world.
i wrote a letter to a job where i DIDN'T act like i was supposed to and write all the crap 'they' tell me to put in... and they wrote back. i went to the interview and acted like me, instead of the arsehole with the set responses they told me, and they liked it. i always used to think 'well obviously the people telling me these things know better' and i think maybe i was wrong.
they made me believe the world doesn't work this way. i shouldn't have listened. i'm still not all that great - okay, let's be honest, i may come off as arrogant but i'm really no better than anyone else. just recently, i'm not sure i'm worse, either. like - maybe difference doesn't mean that, maybe it does just mean different.
i sound like a fucking idiot, as usual.
the fall of rain around a puddle, a streetlight's reflection making each drop a bar of golden beauty (truth). a thousand shining stars a second fall into the water and leave no trace.
i love the unheeded beauties. maybe there's hope yet.
