clinging to the wreckage

Paranoias and fears do their best to settle into the dampest of silent nights and keep us awake with their taunting voices asking us to run headlong into madness and screaming at the very people we most love because, in our moments of doubt, we suspect the most preposterous of acts. As always there is music and there are books. The lyrics in songs share our pains and remind us that we are not alone. The words in books map out the distant past, the shared human condition of longing and love lost leading to pain and despair. Through this we are soothed and given a wonderful company. And, of course, if these things fail, there is always one thing left, there’s always death. And, it must be asked, where are you now? Why is it that you disappear? Why is it that you are so silent and cannot talk about the things happening in your life? This is true for so many in modern life… a silence sets in and the pain and uncertainty is buried deep within because it is considered wrong to expre

A tainting of the blood? What is this manifestation? What marks me so? Is it not enough to have a troubled heart? It has been a decent spell but the words and works fall into ruin once no one is there to remind the world of their existence. But do a search and there will be something to serve as a reminder… a lullaby when I’m gone.             Only yesterday, awake at sunrise, still drunk, bloodshot eyes after only a few hours of sleep. A drive home, a shower, a bus ride, a train into London and a two hour tutorial in which we were asked to speak about a passage from Sophocles' Antigone … another moment of temporary terror to savour once it fades to memory… a pleasant memory of something worthwhile, something different to the regular run of ordinary daily life. Banishing the banality. Once done, a walk with a friend under an umbrella in the pouring rain along the Thames. Beer and wine. Lunch before it was absolutely too late. Morrissey’s Autobiography. Thoughts of French

The morning is empty beer bottles, a wine glass, and books strewn upon the floor. The morning is thoughts of the obviousness of it all – the struggle of being alone and the struggle of not being alone. I think that the latter is worse. Alone I create. Alone I think and read and write. I watch films and listen to music. I travel. There is no one to disturb. There is no one I need to ask. There is no one to complain when I am having fun. There is no one to bring me down when I feel strong. The morning is coffee and solitude. The morning is a beautiful thing… Saturday morning, rising from the ashes of the week’s chaos, the phoenix leading us forth with its potential to unravel into whatever we may please.

It is dark, wet and windy as I lie here in bed flicking from English studies to Bukowski’s poetry. You are in Montreal. I have missed you even though you live in Spain and I live in England. I miss talking to you through the medium offered by modern technology. On holiday you cannot contact me as you are not alone and I feel empty at the thoughts of you being in love with someone else. I took this long and difficult road to find you and when I did I realised that the pain along the way was worth it. And yet, I am denied once more. I read these books but wish I could read your mind and find what it is that you truly think… what it is that you truly desire. Hurry back safely from Montreal and reach out. Life terrifies me but it seems so much better when you are around… when you offer pieces of your mind and of your self. Rush back from Montreal and find me.

Recent times have brought great excitement to my life. There has been recognition and reward. I’ve felt loved and felt love for others and I have developed deep emotional ties. I have been challenged mentally and physically and have learned a great deal in science and wisdom as a result. I have visited various countries and been exposed to diverse cultures and beliefs. I have consumed alcohol to the point of collapse and partied through the night in strange foreign cities. A few negatives arose from these excesses and my health suffered and is still recovering. I witnessed a friend die for a few minutes in a hotel room and I also felt the pain of rejection and loss. However, I sit here tonight feeling proud of the impact I’ve made in recent times but terrified of where this is all going as well as being excited. I have had to change. The negative, pessimistic anti-establishment punk rocker always hell-bent on fighting dogma, tradition and convention is suddenly he

Nothing upsets me more than to get onto an aeroplane and the person sitting next to me is reading Terry Pratchett. Quality literature focuses on issues such as sexism, racism, religion (the questioning thereof), subversion, freedom, isolation, loneliness, etc. Quality literature is not Terry Pratchett, it is George Orwell, Sylvia Plath, Charles Bukowski, Jean Rhys, Anais Nin, Oscar Wilde, etc. To question, to challenge… that is literature. Even as Wilde promoted art for art’s sake and beauty above all, his literature challenged, deeply, conventional thought and behaviour. The beauty of literature is identifying with a human story… the story of someone lost and hopeless and desperate… someone operating outside of society and unable to fit in. The beauty of literature is not Terry Pratchett talking about imaginary planets and using adjectives that absolutely do not fit their nouns and objects. To describe back pain as exquisite, for example, is simply bad English. The only pain

I dreamt of you again last night. You walked away more than four years ago and yet each time I dream of you the link is immediate. In these dreams I search for you and you search for me. When we find each other we hold each other, we hold hands, we kiss and no one else matters. In real life, when you are nearby, I feel like there is someone I know, someone close, someone I love and can confide in. The reality is that you rarely speak to me now, you very rarely even send a message to me any more, but when we do speak we speak as if there has never been a break in our connection and I still wonder if there is any hope persuading you that we should see each other again and resume what once was lost. Then again, there is the possibility that I am simply one of those people who won’t go away when that is all that you truly want.                   For the past five years I have become accustomed to you messaging me whilst I am at airports en route to some destination