Lazy from C-Z

The Friday of all Fridays have always been about juggling expectations against reality. Wanting to step foot into something relevant, something that aches, but in the end it never does, perhaps because life is not always about flipping scripts. Why? In the grand scheme of this perpetual sojourn, the drive of purpose within the zeitgeist is shared within the collective, regardless of what one thinks they deserve, or what the situation at hand calls for. It had just ended, the unhinged transportation woes, that demolished many wallets during the week. Friday should have been different. At noon the eyes split against the sunlit weight, weighing the head down, clocking the shift for domestic life. There goes a little boy that needs a worn man paying him all heed. The woman demands it, the man fears it. And not because the responsibility was a horrible affair, far from it. It just consumes a lot of... time. The fear is more about losing what the man does not realise he has already lost. For...

Slowly as the outlier begins to unravel does the wanton retribution of fate (for lack of a better word) intertwine with the cancelling out of two negatives in life as it stands, if only for a short reprieve. When this outlier finally cracks and decides to mete its own form of righting discrimination, then hopefully all works out well. But the war that is about to transpire exists solely as a motivator, a kind of seraphic intervention, neither good nor bad, just is, and so it would be horrific to think of the endless possibilities of what if. Never will a soul settle for anything less than the ordinary. Half of the events transpiring now require extraordinary will to be ordained, one in which we have in the shortest of supplies, perhaps for a lack of effort or absence of resources, it can not be fully comprehended. We shall persist amongst the worst of mankind. The idea of primal impertinence doth require something akin to a shameless talent for an even more shameless individual. And s...

Something stirs. The feeling of an ant marching to the top of one's neck, waiting to be so easily forgotten. Not even a hint of a footnote. Every single one of its ilk lost through the ebb of space and time. Out of sight, out of mind, out of any real deductible purpose. So it stirs. Now the emotions ramp up. Tick, tock, tickle, pop. The crescendo dances to the swing of French beat. Rain from the ground. From here onwards we delve into a nostalgic mood swing. Two steps. We lost sight of the sound. We lost sense to the crowd. We could have had it all. But the echoes swallowed it whole.

May onwards will be a face forward annihilation of a clash of ideals; strongly mainly the perusal of the idea of me being the sole contributor for both my dependencies and beneficiaries. Home is soon to be in sight, although it was my hope that while the benefits reaped from it are a boon to us all, it is far from the save I hoped it would be. Goodness will bury my finances six foot under. Fortnum & Mason has not changed much since I left. The whole mood feels arbitrarily worse now than it was since I left it about five, six years ago. People still remembered me. Had a brief chat with Ramil and Cher about melancholies of the past to now. The latter apologised, but I will not be stirred. Everywhere I go I carry this lifelong trifecta of grief, regardless of the people that surrounds me. For now, it seems my soul still resides where I currently am professionally.  But the bother persists remembering of yesterday, of the yesteryears, knowing what I know now. Happy birthday, you, w...

After the first flame I spazzed out, crashing to the bottom of the well, wailing profanities on the kitchen sink. Some men just savour the taste of a brewing mind and at the tip's end of a kitchen nightmare. Too many times have I asked the selfsame question: has this all been my fault? To a certain degree, one has to inherit the accountability. But the thing I learned most about working with difficult people is that it does not matter how at fault you are, heads will roll, and I will not go down not swinging. True to my word it was one hattrick away from being tekken. Would I really tekken myself though at the workplace? In the heat of the moment, and even now, I would. Nothing in this world will bring me unjust flavourings. The palette of my inner being deep down hungers for this turmoil. For so long have I been taken away from these negative impulses; it somehow feels refreshing now, even if I have too much to risk. I will not be an accessory to being secondhand. Everything else ...

The watershed moment of the twilight of my years has just narrowed down into a epileptic fit of self-rationalisation; this was supposed to be my moment, a self-inflicted coup de grace, to go down and out and be completely naked to the eye. I can attest that Zakhar is an incredibly phenomenal gift that came to me. He is everything one could want or more. The more I see his face, the more I look in hindsight the failure that was me to my own kin. I was supposed to be their chosen one, until I was not. I was supposed to lift ourselves up by our bootstraps. And now, to what avail but be in the mercy of forever memories that live on so long as I live on. That one massively colossal failure that stretches to a generational flop, in unkind fashion, making me realise that that too could be me. My mother after all is me. I take her own name to myself. It is her legacy. Will it be the legacy I offer Zakhar in turn as well?

Voices are telling me that I should carry on. So, in lieu of pushing away the negativity, dare I say the negativity shall breathe new form into function. In many ways, this is more of a regression than anything. All that ever was and will be always come full circle. Oftentimes I wrongfully conflate my status with wanting to be rebirthed into something more standardised and optimal. The joke here is that regardless of what skin one wears, the wounds remain the same under any outfit. Would that I could have had the chance to swallow my pride and resist the temptation to authenticate the denials, own up to it, and pick the bootstraps up waistlength. Who gives a flying toss? I am the darkness that I have always been.

My noggin is in all sorts of disarray; something is bound to break. Something about the smell of empowerment. Haunted by thoughts of my father's midlife crises long ago coinciding with mine. Something about the uncertainty of not knowing. Something about wanting to deny duress to take hold of darker urges, wherever this soulsucking hoover takes the dustbag for discarding. The strain of work and life licking and gustating the peripheries of my senses, doing my head in. Something about a child; something about bald dickheads; something about love; something about money; something about adulthood.

There has been a massive seismic activity in the aftermath of Zeny's passing since. Things that were probably taken for granted are being taken for granted, and, perhaps even, gave a false sense of hope that I could have never comprehended then or since. I can only assume that even before the real pressure has taken hold, the little things are all vulturing around waiting for a single moment of clarity. All this demystificating has taken a lot of my inner senses over a wide range of time, slowly masticating over the tiny reprimands, unbeknownst to the struggler. If only I could remember what it was like to actually savour life's many esoteric pains, for it no longer carries the same weight as it once did prior to that one loss, and maybe, just maybe, the pain that is endured post-pain is no longer as intoxicating as it once did me. My first child is bound to be here in a few days' time, and all that envelopes my senses is the other loss: Ani. Betwixt all the sweet and the s...

The air swole with icy breath in Edinburgh in the midst of summer's bless. It was perhaps the worst that could happen, especially when the running tensions are high in between the spectrum of what was supposedly romantic morrows. A hope, perchance, to awaken love's burgeoning union, in the crippling heat of the wailing sun's approval, instead drenched in bouts of pointless hikes and contentious, albeit passionate, companionship. One could simply erase the enigmatic and form a more likely reasonable bond. One that could hope to topple the nagging quirks and cracks that form the crevices of this still burgeoning union. Yet they are likely still halfway there. Halfway from all the beginnings and ends of it. Halfway from the sands and the sea and the sparkling air. Scotland was and still is a nice reprieve from the menace that is of London (not England, see). But now our sights are set to another round of a seaside Turkish delight. One that should finally contain after the topp...

Aloe vera. Cappuccino. Fortune. One was to numb away the fears and the others to suffocate it. Suffocate it to a point of no recognition, until we are all back to numbing it all back down. But the fears are here to stay, no matter the course, no matter the destination. So many calls to diversify, some to compartmentalise, and many endeavour to rise above. The consequences irregardless are a moot point. We are at a precipice of a dynamic stagnation, constantly moving to and fro unceasingly towards the same fucking stupid shitpiece. The more things change , the more things remain the same , or so it goes. Sriracha. Honey. Sunflower. Ani went home with a noticeably more calm demeanour, for two days in a row now, no frills. It would have been surprising had it not been for the most obvious of sobriquets. Lydia, she says, named after her grandmother, as tears well up in her droopy and tired eyes. I frown in contempt at the helplessness of it all. There is no need to contest it, I reckon, o...

Just as I was about to gain a little bit of traction, something somehow somewhere brews outside of the peripheries that demand a sense of chaotic tendency that no decree of decorum can surcease. It is beyond my ken. Regardless of the outflow of good, nothing overall sticks in the long run. One can only hope that letting go is never the refuge, and why should it be? Solitude when all was just hitting stride is the most disconcerting bother that I cannot fathom why it even persists in the first place. Worlds apart in a lifetime of vagabondry, too disattached from the reality of peaceful idealism. Time tick tick ticks tock to the end of the finish line, often too soon, often diabolically underestimated in its affectations. War never changes, personal or otherwise. War often misunderstood. War for the sake of it. And death, constant death amongst us all around. All around me, literally and figuratively. 

The rain season sweeps away the old, welcoming in the new, and giving a chance of redemption for that mini spring bop. New words and new sound and new faces and fresh beginnings; one can only hope to reassess their sense of selves in the magic of the moment. But insofar as time is concerned, there is no such thing. This indiscriminate lack of regard is typical of a more metaphysical viewpoint. It is yet unfortunate that we have yet to fundamentally understand the true essence of time and how it persists; how it remains to be; how to explain it in a less vague sense other than the tenses of past, present, and future. Let it be said that the idea of time itself is relative. From our perspective, here on this planet, with a congruent sense of sameness, regardless of location, time is a linear path going forward with no reprieve at all whatsoever, and if understanding the what and how of time is, there is no doubt one can attribute a form of deliverance unto the mystery in and of itself, a...

Sometimes I have to manually negate all the peripherals in the background in order to mitigate the noise. It overpowers when smothered by these inevitable events wrapping me into its tendrils all at once. Were I a wiser man, I would give up on one of these poisons and choose anew, but at this stage I have consumed much of the copium to just give it all away now. Maybe it truly is my rightful might. Two years ago I inhabited this persona of a multitasking man for the goal of winning an aesthetic. The aesthetic being that was the anima of a live anomaly from a far and away land, where dunes were all too common with their beaches and the daily warmth of the sun swallows each and every one whole. It was a long and winding road to a painful end, the kind of which echoes in my mind to this very day. Perhaps I should have heeded my own warnings. I told myself before the excursion to prepare for whatever eventuality should that decision result, but the results were far more sinister than I had...

A minor hiccough, some. One tip and there goes my temper. Forces whispering in my hand's own will. I wish to reconcile with whatever little respect I have for myself. No one knows, but good, whatever it does for me. No soul is free from the tempest that is my gaol. The good thing is that I am slowly fitting in. The bad thing is that it seems to me getting out will be quite a frightful, especially knowing that the uncertainty that behooves such madness is beyond my capacity. One good move in chess changes everything. Mine victory came at such fruitful and impeccable timing. Hopefully this means that sustainability comes at a stable pace. One would assume that the bearance of a struggler is easier with a compatible tandem. At this area Ani has been astounding and beyond words of expression. She has paved the way, smashing the wall with her pickaxe finding light on the other end of the wall that resists our advancements. Over the course of time we both will find a better way to addres...

It is easy to avoid the fear of decay when right now everything else is tinted with rose. I fear I may face a rude awakening. Sooner or later, the behelit opens up to the apostle worth a penny, and if I had a penny for every single ballbuster out there wringing my head on a noose, I would be earning paltry minimum wage. Sometimes you need not seek absolution, sometimes you have to be unapologetically you . At this very moment I am simply glad that Ani is drunk with our love potions. It comes across as a bit of relief instead, a mitigated calculation which could have been much worse. Those reassurances I tell myself every single day work only for the betterment of my here and now and not for the there and then. Suppose it would be a preferrable choice if I imagine how massively defeated I would be if handicapped by multiple attackers in every angle. The choice I made in December of last year would have been proven fatal. Do not make me regret that which has made me feel jubilantly alive...

Building up the strength, picking up the pace, turning over leaves when the wind is never afriend. Whole journeys start to make very little sense right at a certain point. The fog lits up, we falter, there amongst the brown and dingy cold. You have to respect the consequences. Only in taking accountability can one rationalise the mystique of the substandard anomaly before them, washing hands will never be able to cross over the eggshells. You have to man up on the hard parts and allow the risk of you losing it all to percolate. Either the fear or threat empowers you, or it annihilates you completely. There is no middle ground. Regardless of the right or wrong; the sensical and the irrational; what matters is you live with it. You die, and make sure you never die again, but eventually you will. But the will to live on remains.

Much can be said and much has been said about matters of my core, whether intentionally or inadvertently. Regardless of mine own opinion of myself, the fact is that not much can be further said without already digging up the carcass of yesteryears. Reaching a crossroads, something not totally alienating and, in a way, already tainted with hint of perversions from living. It is not a complaint but rather an indictment of truth. Somehow my matter of factness antagonises that with mine relationships with other people, particularly with Ani. We stand tall in between transgressions; too early to tell, but my optimism is in outstanding merits. The pain that was injected to her intraspiritual being manifests itself too often. Scars of the days before I came. An all too common story for the common man. I have no idea how to fix hers, nor do I assume that I can, we can both simply live our lives as if we were ignoring what was practically huge chunks of our lives absent one another, because if ...

Someone falls to pieces; someone else gets led astray. There from the mystical bonds of those united stands from behind those unbehoved; the constantly nagging, cringy, and scrupulous lot. I sit behind a small room wider than a sardine can, wholly satisfied. Ani thinks I am at work, of which I am. Everything is hitting a strange plateau. Wherever I am feels good . Pieces of notes fall down but the letter said...