As though the wind may pass with golden steps from shallow graves, the warmth of her hands could not defeat January weather in England, proving that tests of fate weigh heavier than the insidious intentions of a warring tribe. Perhaps it is high time I engage in other methods more worthy of personal consideration. She left me in the cold when my reality cloaked in malady was in full motion, sweating icicles in the interior, punching my guts in gutsy ups and gutsy downs. She was my meaning. She is my void.
Monday, 26 December 2016
The long draught comes to a full stop. Birds fly left and right with her arrival, and the soft, fragile essence of winter finally comes full circle. Through Miriam I have reconciled with a part of my past and all its transgressions, despite the discomfort and the lingering ball of hatred swelling inside me still alight. Miriam has gladly imparted to me the gift of hope. The hope that something good comes for every ten bads that runs me over to the wall. She now finds herself with me, and occupying her time this day with her first proper day of work, and on Boxing day at that, two days after she had lost her handbag in Holborn station on the way home from mother's.
I find myself worrying too much at the thought of her mind in stitches. This is not a very good way to start our relationship. Fretting over such matters now would only serve to fuel an unhealthy amount of longingness, of dependence, and of obsession. She does not need my constant meddling and pestering, and I need to slap myself stupid to remind myself every single time I do something as stupid.
Wednesday, 16 November 2016
Call it a burning desire to urinate on the system that we as people have established; status quo. Felt a huge fluctuation of anxiety when I finished this day earlier than what I would have thought or expected, and it was technically my first day of job (again), and huge surges of this same rhetoric came pouring back in when Miriam and I have not been having proper back-and-forths since yesterday. It was as if we had lost interest with one another just like that. Either that or I have been consumed by the same system of dependency. The bug that I caught long ago that ruined me to smithereens.
The long-winding hours, that which I felt was necessary, was to be a time of reprieve and a time to catch breath. It turned out to be much more toxic that it should be, and it came to pass faster than it should and I now feel poisoned and abused by the thought of having allowed this in the first place. Tomorrow is what I would consider a real test of my endurance, when I work from seven in the morning until two the next day. I fear for myself as always, tiptoeing into fragile territories, flirting with disaster. It comes with the territory when today marks the seventh job I have had in a span of three months. It is what I deserve; it is not what I expect mine life to have been. Still, the feeling of dread that the next few days take me has nothing compared to when the figurative tomorrow finally lands in Luton airport in December.
My existence had been feeling like a glass maze. I look forward to a straight line, only to crash face-first into an invisible blockage, and I need to navigate the maze with just my unorthodox way of thinking. The maze represents my journey, but the end is not at all that important. There is no happiness, no contentment, no light at the end of the tunnel. The journey keeps moving on. The intention is to make me realise that my journey, our journeys, are not actually ours to begin with, but only to peruse, until our times have passed. Like the supermoon that came to visit. The moon, in all its glory, came to say hello last night, and the night before last night, I suppose, from where I am from. Then it was lost so quick that it just showed itself for the purpose of tease. Like my life; my journey. There are days when I suffer and suffer hard an intense feeling of saudade, as the Portuguese speakers describe it. It is something that I cannot describe, but I know it is what I think it is.
Tuesday, 15 November 2016
Everything seemed rather perfect until it was not. Problem with decadence is having to go nowhere else but down, and now it seems to be the way where I am headed, but only short-lived, only because I cannot admit to myself that this was a little too soon.
Miriam will be arriving in less than three weeks, and that is all well and fine, but rather that spending her time from the get-go with me, she now finds herself locked up in this tug-of-war for her between me and the family.
So there will be more waiting game, I suppose, to uplift unenthused spirits from restless abandonment. My time will be forcefully occupied by the powers that be. Food is to be found and taken by my lonesome, with no thought or permission to be had. An apology coming from mine mouth is a lost and sad cause.
Wednesday, 9 November 2016
Past two night were perhaps the most comfortable I have graced thus far, despite in the past I have said never to dabble again in hostelsurfing (just because I had realised that spending all that money has not been all that worth it). Just I felt that it was an important occasion at this particular moment being that it had been so cold out in the open to the teeth. Squatting at my hedge (defensively begotten) in Hyde Park had been mostly deplorable. Almost impossible to conceive the struggle and difficulties of my days to days, and, despite having no beneficial returns and the prospect of losing advantage for the upcoming December charade, it was then that I felt compelled to return to my temporary accommodational relief. Besides, my work in Roundhouse for the Christmas runs will guarantee me a return here in the nearest future, so it might be best for me to just let it pass. It should not be as detrimental to my pockets if I pray the cards right.
So I woke up slightly groggy this morning, but better than the usual, having spent all of yesterday with la ragazza dei miei sogni on a Facebook marathon. It had been very common and typical days recently (with little to no effect on my person, save for a miscalculation a week ago on a certain predicament that led me to spending a bit more than necessary). Still, not as bad as the situation a few months ago, when I zeroed my bank account for a few hours' touch moments of morning sex. Never again. It was then that I knew I had fucked up thoroughly, jeopardising everything I had done previously over a fool's whim. Besides the groggy morning I had suffered, today had given me a renewed perspective about simple things that are otherwise thought of as mundane. While my ability to write had stagnated over the past few weeks, or months even, my desire to pull through this rut had overcome complacency and adversity and great vigour and ferocity had emerged in its stead. New inspirations have propelled me to revisit a familiar interest and my intent is to go along with it as it stands. Today marks a great new age for villainy. Donald Trump's emergence in the United States as its new head of state offers great opportunity, and a confirmation of my own deep desires to bring out what society deems difficult of me; Rodrigo Duterte's bid to improve the quality of life in the Philippines; and Miriam's imminent arrival. These are things that really mindstruck me recently, and perhaps take some time to poke into while I wallow into my own craven tirades. God knows I cannot wait to shaken the tailbottoms of my Murican brethren about Trump especially after making light of Britain's concern with regards to its departure from the European Union. But until then it might as well be that the machination of everyone I thought were different from mine were actually much closer than I deemed it to be.
Monday, 7 November 2016
If, for some reason, she forgets,
life will find its way, when,
her heart ruminates, all,
that I have exhausted, to give,
to share, to shed, and feel,
life will find its way;
I am, and, will always be,
for you, mine Miriam,
the one I call mine own;
If, for some reason,
I happen to forget, slap me,
once, hard, to my face,
and tell me how it is,
that you have loved me
only then will I, due to the
circumstances with which
mine mind operates,
begin to ruminate,
the sweetness of your all;
There will never, ever and ever,
be, to me, after you,
someone like you;
Half past five in this early morning, somewhere near Elephant and Castle, shamed by the stench of mine cumbersome breeches. It had been too long since this garment was first met with mine skin. High time it should be replaced with something more alleviating, something more fresh, and something less toxic than mine own waste. Fortunately today is most definitely that day, if I get the will and energy to do so still later on. Once when daylight touches the tip of my crouching wanton eyes, caressing the luggage beneath it, hoping the muddy dark be washed away by simple liquid, away from the petals of the absent sun and hopeless cold. Plan is to revisit an old place of shelter, once thought to be mine acquaintance, but never lasted as hoped it would. Met no person of relevance to call a friend unlike that one called Clink save for one whom I tried to shake from memory just because his person became symbolic of mine very own misery. Him and I had some similarities in common, though you would never thought it be by the looks of our faces: the rivalry between our lives' conditions intertwined; the interest and desperation of wanting to be loved in a world of melodragic circumstance; and the joy and sadness of having hearts so glass. It had been long since our paths last mingled, and part of me hoped that that was last indeed. Mauritius was all that stayed in mine mind to remind me of him. His name deleted from mine conscious. But mention it once or twice and it will flood right back in.
I had seen him in another occasion just one time even after that one event. It was not so long ago, but long ago enough to remember that I still had a job back then. If not the night reception one I had with Ambassadors, then most definitely the floor runner one with Flora Indica. Both of which ended in a tragic mishap brought about by mine proclivity to run mine temper pedal to the metal. I was walking along that path in Hyde Park that connects straight from High Street Kensington to Bayswater and vice versa when Mauritius here appeared out of nowhere walking in the opposite direction having something in his hand that seemed to scream dodgy! without having asked. Had no time to spare to say hello, I barely liked the man. He tried to fuck a Polish girl with a funny name from a hostel I once was mates with, near a hedgeplace I used to stay somewhere within Belsize Park. Good neighbourhood, to say the least, but the experience of mine stay there was far from joyful. It was rather dull, almost dangerous, and expensive. This was before I quit hostel-hopping to settle in mine hedgehome at Hyde Park. Mauritius was gone, and that was it. The memory of him however lingers, and I cringe the thought of randomly bumping into him in the street wherever I went. Once he was symbolic of my fears, now he reminds me of this whole ordeal. A year full of shitters in the sack which I cannot hope to escape from. This whole fiasco of Mimi coming in a month's time is just a masquerade to add flavour to the ones I have lost when mine tongue was stuck in a pole before mine father tucked his cock to his ass and ran away. Nothing will change. It scares me. She does not deserved to fall into mine trap.
Hopefully later on today I get to speak to a person named Roberto whom I can negotiate with with regards to me and Miriam's living space for December. Last Friday was a busted chance due to the feels of the weather.
Sunday, 30 October 2016
Four hours and ticking and I cannot seem to be copacetic to the privacy of her suspicious absence. How could I be when frightening tremors had shook their country just earlier today? It has been quite common to read about earthquakes rocking Italy recently, and the more these events take place, the more people feel less surprised about the fatalities. At the moment, I can sit on this chair being bothered by Starbucks personnel every half an hour or so, waiting for updates of Miriam's whereabouts. Surely she would be safe. I suppose my fears always come back to bite me in my arse. This is a farcry from mine fears. Far be it from the truth, I will not let it tear me asunder. She will be back to me soon enough, and then it would not take long before she will be in my arms, singing praises of our love, beneath the starry sky and our duvet. There is this unusual feeling of dread knowing that tomorrow I will be once again immersed into a job that I do not love; a return to form; of being factotum. Also, I fear that I may have grown a little bit attached to the idea of me calling my hedge home. It sure feels to me that the more I spend nights there, the more I lose my sense of shame. When I had come back at six in the morning after spending the entire night watching the final showdown between SK Telecom T1 and Samsung Galaxy at Westfield Shepherds Bush, there was no ounce of discomfort felt within me, as if I should be, but I did not.
Regardless, now I should learn to love again. Miriam has come back, and I must needs entertain my principessa.
Friday, 28 October 2016
So the sun rose up and I had to awaken due to bladder issues outside my realm of control. There is no place any more hellish than being caught with your pants down on a park hedge while rangers are out there trimming it for the fast coming of winter. I had to budge my lazy butt when I overheard one said that he noticed someone living there. It would have made for an awkward conversation, one I could not for long want to suffer.
As usual I try to fight off the disease as I make my way to a cosy Starbucks near Holborn. The day went by so fast, and it so happened to be the second day I succumbed to surrender, having left my spot at a wonderful job opportunity in O2 Arena in Greenwich for more time with Esprit. It is as if our fate and tangled for quite some time. Mark had sent me a message earlier today congratulating me of a job well done last week. But the only highlight of my day was having Miriam and I tackle our anxieties right before our day-ender.
Most of the time before our late conversation was spent by me trying to avoid a fast conversation. It was as if I was trying to intentionally cause her guilt, which I always do with everyone. I have troubles vocalising my own temperament, and the pride of knowing I can take it all in takes over me like Hyde. We had exchanged sweet pleasantries, warm regards. I had even introduced her to the universe of Milan Kundera with l'Insostenibile Leggerezza dell'Essere. She happened to love it. But I was still troubled by the fear in me knowing that she can still fall off my grasp, and that sentiment became increasingly troublesome with each passing day until December. Reassuring Miriam of my love hopefully is enough to convince someone like her of something so fleeting of me. Last night, it was as if I was trying to let her go. Tonight it felt a reassurance that our potential still can reach above a high ceiling, if I manage to tuck away my insecurities and anxieties beneath a masquerade of jeers and japes.
Tomorrow my goal is redemption, and perhaps a draw of fresh experience, while inside Tate Modern for a late escapade.
Thursday, 27 October 2016
The Benevoli were all still preoccupied by the news of death of the Lordfather when the children of Tulussa invaded Loppianeu. It was discovered that the Lordfather had secretly conspired with neighbour Poruscsh sometime in ca 00.9, successful in setting up a diplomatic truce wherein the much-awaited unification of Certagruni was at stake. A single cohesive nation of a united Certagruni would understandably put Tulussa on red alert, especially when not too long ago they had soured their relationship with Poruscsh by taking the Strait of Marus for themselves, a strategical point of contention that benefited Tolussa greatly by diminishing their former ally's strength. Poruscsh did not take this betrayal well, it seems.
No one can truly verify what was discussed during that clandestine sessions between the two biggest national rivals.
It was reported that when the Dux of Tulussa, Archibalt Sivi, had discovered this, he sent his recsons to assassinate the Lordfather of Loppianeu, three days before Tulussa unleashed the full might of her warsons upon the troubled archipelago. The Benevoli were able to withstand an overwhelming attack for merely two moons before every single one of them were extirpated.
Poruscsh could only stand back and hear the word in passing of the massacre being done to their southern rival. They knew that an uncalled intervention only invited forth trouble.
"For now we are in no position to make any demands. Doom crawls upon our walls," said Proteus, Dux vitium of Poruscsh, announcing the fall of Loppianeu to his people, the other half of what was once Certagruni, an ancient imperial nation that gave birth to the contemporary ideology and dogma of Carthiticism. "We have gambled our liberty with the wrong side, and now I truly see the tragedy of it all."
The full occupation of Loppianeu lasted for four days despite the technological advancement of the Benevoli. In the end, Tulussa simply outmanned and outgunned them to oblivion. Poruscsh stood silent on the other side of the archipelago, wary of the development in the south.
It was not until four months later when the mages came from out of nowhere, bringing with them a behemoth of legend that gave Poruscsh a fighting drive, thus causing the war and birth of Certagrunivrun.
The singing clouded my ears and I lost my sense of hearing the moment she rang the first bell. By the time the second bell sounded, I was on the floor bleeding from my ears. Everything around me was about to collapse. The world around me blurred little by little, and I felt as if this was my ultimate adieu. The third bell rang and I still lied stiff to the side. Another body fell in front of me. Could have smashed me to my end, but there seemed no rush. Everything slowed down. I no longer noticed the fourth bell sound. My entire senses caved in. But I knew all was lost.
Basangra has once again awakened.
The mages who earlier formed a huge turtle formation to counter our moorguards finally dissipated once the might of Basangra went into full throttle. No one was spared, not even those fools that summoned him from the portal whence he came from. The rest of the moorguards remained, fending the gargantuan beast all by themselves to no avail. It was a futile massacre. We were largely outmatched, and the mages took one home, eager to pursue the victory that they had been chasing for a long time.
- excerpt written by Dastarioa, the only surviving moorguard during the Advent of Basangra, ca 00.8 (before crusades)
Wednesday, 26 October 2016
If I could just draw luck and find another job before December, my anxiety would decrease tenfold. Tomorrow I have another registration with a new company. Hospitality and the same shit, over and over, again and again. Sick to death with a machination that clearly does not work to my favour, paining me with early terminations in a month or so, not even giving me any benefit of doubt. I am no asset to anyone, only to a rare few, and even then once my ooze sets in, no one dares to step in. I truly am alone. This realisation is the first time I have ever felt so isolated. Miriam clearly does not deserve me.
I fear for a future that my scarred self allows to happen. All I wanted was a place to call my own. But I am through and through a villain. Modern necessities share with me the desire to put myself above all others. Given the chance, I would see the world burn and left to snigger, eyes closed, no guns needed.
Behind closed doors, across distant worlds, day to night, I will retake the light of my soul back, whether or not the darkness consumes me.
Monday, 24 October 2016
Fourteen hours of Esprit last night was a bit overkill for my mind and body. Today's soiree happened to be not such a blast after all. It was much too difficult to bounce my head around it with. My phone had died for more than half a day since, and tried to sleep it off within the confines of a public park hedge that I now call home. It was much of a tragedy for some time. For now I wonder what it would actually be like when shit finally reaches the fan a month from today. Where do I go and who do I turn to for help? Nobody except myself as always.
Miriam was with me once more. She is almost always with me as much as possible. Now I fear for my sanity again. To do the same mistakes as I did before. To live and die with one purpose and sticking by my weak mantra like a sore thumb with no direction and no worries in life. At the very least this woman makes me feel a very happy and lucky man, and sometimes I do ask myself whether I deserve such a painfully honest and loving heart. I was doomed by this same insecurity once before, and I will be damned if I let this win over me a second time. My world is in such a fragile state of affairs that even though I keep telling myself how copacetic I think I am or regardless of how I think about the state of my own existence, I remain grasping at straws with each step, and one wrong costs an awful lot more than a hundred rights. One day is all it takes. My worst enemy is my own self, and I have known this titbit for quite some time now.
While I went out to find a place to recharge myself and my electronic accessories, not much actually happened, save for being bothered by kids who know very little as I woke up from a very traumatic battery, suffered merely hours before, within my meagre hedge. I still had my look-good attire on while being homeless. Quite a contradiction if you ask me. But I was too tired to work up a mood, or even care a bit. Sleep to me has become a survival instinct that I could no longer even dream of losing my hedge even if it is proven to be inevitable. It has clung to me like the slugs that own the fucking soil and spoil me at night.
In a few I will be there once again, biting the cold, waiting for a spin doctor to talk me into believing it is my god-given right.
Friday, 21 October 2016
There remained a lingering, springy pain from underneath my testicles that made standing up feel quite a chore. It has been two days now. An open wound that would just not heal, menacing me with every step.
No one gets it. I begin to stink and no one blinks an eye. No one tells me straight to my face how disgusting a human being I truly am. No, no one has the audacity. Cowards living under a safe rock.
So now that I have sorted out my bling, and so the situation calls for me to move forward and step ahead of the game. I need to earn more for the sake of whatever fuckery is on the way. A month left before the cue ticks reminding me of my interpersonal responsibilities. Miriam made sure that her libido is kept intact while mine floats all over the ba-dee-ya highway to the boulevard of broken dreams and anticlimactic disappointment. My sense of security is definitely out of loop as you see, but this is just my midlife dilemma blaring at a loudspeaker inside my head. Somehow if I could find a way to survive this excursion with Miriam in December, I will be free of this anxiety, and only then will I be able to freely open up myself to whatever. But until then my problem is primarily financial.
Most problems usually are.
Fancies were tickled, but no one actually bothered checking to see whether or not I would last another month under cold and miserable duress. The army of slugs were upon me day and night, as if my next day migraine was caused by a stray, microscopic infant slug who had lost its way. It saddens me to think my demise would be caused by an irreparable factor such as this. Perhaps it is a long shot, one that I am willing to ignore for now in order for me to enjoy what is left of my life outside the threat of constant paranoia.
I cannot even leave this McDonald's now. I have just consumed food once again without exercising in return. What form would my physical beside my countenance have in store for Miriam come December when she lands her gaze upon mine? It would be tremendously embarrassing. One that I hope to downplay for fear of disappointment. Once again I come across the threshold of falling in love like a maniac. A few weeks ago Miriam had told me of her brother's fears that I may end up being as such, a maniac. Well, it is not the first time I will exhibit such tendencies. But I digress, there is a fundamental requisite for me to rest, as my hedge of slugs await me with such vile contempt. There is something else that I need to do despite the fact that my failure in keeping arduous jobs remain constant. It is the only thing left that has remained the case; my short journey Ping Pong is the fifth or sixth in line with the same result in a span of, what, three months? Sweet Christmas.
I have fourteen minutes left before I forcepush myself to walk back to my hedgehome. By then it will be a short walk from the McDonald's across High Street Kensington station. The sky will soon melt back to milky white a few minutes from now. The darker it is when I get back, the better. My challenge is to push me away from the desire to partake in more sinful vices, such as wasteful cigarettes. It pains me to admit that my once pride has now been overtaken. It has already been a year, and I have stuck with very little gain. Mother help me. Homelessness is a cruel thing. If there ever was one thing I could not tell Miriam without cringing hard from the hardship, it would be this. Yes, yes, she likes me, and yes, yes, she would care less, but I have learned an awful lot in my relationship with Mioseon to know that honesty is careless abandon whose only intent is to sway us to a more preferable path. Honesty will bow to no man nor woman, much less if the intention to utilise it was mainly to sway favour towards yourself. Fuck honesty!
Three minutes left to go. Might as well get myself going. My head is beginning to spiral out of control. Tomorrow should provide me more time to spin my head even more with thoughts of December; what to do, where to go, and how to fucking live my life properly.
Thursday, 20 October 2016
Work had been done in small doses. I now feel like a huge load had been lifted from my back. It is however never enough. That is life's greatest Catch-22. You get to do some work, have some life, and still you need to work more to have more life. Apparently one can only have so little in life before everything else implodes. We are all made with built-in time bombs after all to diminish the value of what we have done in our lives.
The road to mine is paved with wide indifference. Everyone else is too bothered about themselves to be bothered by mine. I have literally been living in a hedge for months now, and for what? For a chance to feel something better come December, when the thing that matters most actually culminates into something special. Miriam is a name that will become a household commodity, and I have moved on from the other M for quite some time now, which sickens me to think I have even bothered with it. I am imprisoned by my own past, and now I long for this new potential.
Wednesday, 15 June 2016
Eleven pages of work had to be done at such a short period of time. None of the others had any inkling of work nor the desire to accomplish what was necessary to achieve this goal. Perhaps it was too much to ask of me; my responsibilities do not include the work of thieves and braggarts.
This will be a long month and already halfway through it. The light at the end of this road serves as a guidance for the torturous tomorrow that awaits what little there is that is left of me. Break down my days in threes because sevens are a wee bit excessive. The sevens are my enemy now, threes a crowd, but that is all there is and it is all to need.
This one colleague of mine tells me openly about his homophobia after a scantily clad guest came up to us to purchase some small bottles of water. He gave one swift look at him, came up with a decision based on his demeanour, his voice, and his choice of clothing or lack thereof, dismissing him immediately as gay and judged him decisively based of these few seconds of touch proximity.
"I hate gays, man," he whispers to me. "But not enough to kill them."
By that he was referring to the recent tragedy about a group of people in the United States of America who were shot at a club in Orlando, Florida, when a man opened fire at people after seeing two men kiss each other.
"They should be locked up in a mental institution," he continues. "They have problems mentally, man. God did not make man and man and woman and woman, he just made man and woman."
This guy is fine. Most nights at least. Better than the other one. My silence in the matter seemed to unnerve him. He walks away, and that is that.
There is this one stayover guest we have that also happens to be from my country, is also gay/trans (could not be bothered to find out which), and happens to speak my regional language as well. This person knew me perhaps because I look the part, and that I happen to be working at the same place as my sister, thereby negating my mystery of the matter by coming across as conspicuously obvious. Most nights turn out peaceful, if not dreadfully tedious, and devoid of anything substantial. Just as if you were selling your soul to the highest bidder. But some nights this person comes to check in to his/her room with some peculiar requests, of which I would rather not divulge for confidentiality purposes. All we know is that in his/her room some mischievous things do happen which involves another person as his/her pawn.
To be able to afford this kind of money by practically living in a hotel day in and day out is decadent and gratuitous, especially considering I look at it from my own perspective wherein financial ruin and struggle become an everyday common reoccurrence. The gist of it is that this person has questionable moral compass and integrity to an outside eye, but the consequences either seem very commendable to one, or dodgy to most.
Fuck it, he/she is an escort. That is the nicer way of masquerading a job description, but it is much preferable than the words prostitute or whore. Two of my colleagues look at him with drowned eyes, prepping a humorous liner or two when his/her back is turned, blows a gesture of sigh, and off they go contesting their manhood through someone else's expense.
I am not a radical, and perhaps never will be. But if I were to do something for this world one day, I need to start somewhere. There are so many things I can do, but I certainly am no Messiah.
Just a boy, wanting to spend eleven minutes of masquerading madness with a flowered lady and a pint of Guinness.
Sunday, 22 May 2016
One gesture and a smile and I was smitten from the first. Smitten like a dead puppy tail-wagging in the afterlife up in cloud nine. Or should I say up in summit of Olympus where my dear dreams have left itself to be acclimated, far from my own control, deserting me at my most wildest moment of vulnerability? The hard kiss on my cheek is still very much fresh. Would that I could keep it as a glorious and everlasting memory. Memories are by nature going by two faces. One to stir sweet nostalgia, and the other to provoke eternal sorrow. Hence the reason why I bestowed my final memento of a bygone time to Olympia before I left. Such is a sad nature of my affairs, but how was she to know? To her I was as well a memory of a time when we chance met clashing charm against charm. How could I ever had taken this long to pursue this endeavour? How could I have lingered in a mistake for far too long that it could have easily slipped me by? It felt to me as if one of my foot was trapped between precipices while the other was shoved and stuck in my mouth for who knows how long.
So I feel such tragedy befalls me to almost have to bid adieu to my yesterweeks behind. New opportunities present itself which I have not myself built, but only accrued through effortless means, or, much worse, nepotism. I in truth am not built for too much a durability; I stutter, I quiver, I fall easily the first chance that comes. Last night could have been my swan song for Esprit, to whom I owe much of my few months-long survival in the urban and rural wilderness, where I had been left to fend for myself absent sympathy.
England had been mine, and now it owes me a living.
It was hard to let go of my short-term addiction towards Olympia. Struggling with the lowest expectation was hard enough for me to forgo, how much worse would higher expectations have been? Torturous, hellish. Total fucking enigma. Suffice to say, I should not expect anything, and yet it feel so goddamned incomplete. A glass half-full is still a glass half-empty, or so the cliché goes. Irony should ignite the ashes in mouth to learn this was the day I learned of her name. I submitted myself for my own peer review. Infatuation with her probably means just simply that. To go further than what it actually is as this stage in time would require more sustenance in my part to allow a space for breathing and nurturing. Plenty of patting to the back and to the sides and a swift slap to a cheek. But the distant echoes of her voice saying all the right words are deep trombones bouncing side to side through my soul. It strengthened not only what I desired so much of someone the more time was spent beside her, but also my expectations towards women in my life in general. Whereas the boundaries of a sustainable relationship in my current living space is all but muted save for a minor heres and theres, this one was special right at the moment of our first sight, and it was only until now that we have nurtured our first steps, months long after we have met and have even seen each other often since then. The only difference is that this was an important and necessary vis-a-vis interaction that we overall lacked out of the capacity of a mixture of mine own pusillanimity and indifference. Chance get I would make things proper and official. Nigh time to showcase to someone my intentions when I have never ever done this in all my long years in life. Fruitless years spent basking in figurative self-mutilation. angst, and dwelling too much and too long in regret, always preparing and cooking myself rare and leaving it dry, cold, and tasteless.
There were however many opportunities for me to consider. My options have now opened up quite a bit marred only were it not for the ultimate fear of the inconsolables. Even before Olympia, my foundation had always been firmly rooted towards strength in individuality. which is the only real thing I treasure more in life above all else.
Tuesday, 19 April 2016
'Twas a sweet evening, but overall uneventful, yesterday was. It was mounted on the carcasses of inevitability from the first, with no hope of reprieve. It is supposed to be the case that I should have been halfway to London by now. My journey began yesterday and crashed and burned only an hour or so later. Thorough cowardice and forced elation. Slowly I have acclimated (acclimatised?) to my new nature. Sleep no longer was a pained affair. I wake up and go before anyone barely notices. The only witnesses I have are coming from the eyes of uncaring rubbishmen doing their morning dues.
Today the plan is to just not die. By hook or crook, I will survive. Come tomorrow, I will be back in London working once again at Mansion House and Vintners, the usual piss-posh. Wembley after that for two days. Ecstatic, with a little bit of last night's mackerel stuck in my teeth after I threw up a little bit in my mouth after saying that. Tragedy is what would be if a single shift gets shafted off my grasp. I still have about two weeks and three day before payday, and it will be a long-winding road from here to there. Hardships will be had for certain. Just not a moment long ago was a conversation with a man who I thought was my salvation. I had applied for a program that would hopefully give me roof for the rough, but what I was only reassured with was hopelessness. Kept asking me for a frequent spot, as if as a homeless person you have to mark a territory and brandish it around as if your own. I told him, "To be honest, I don't know. It's really hard to say. Anywhere outside Kings Cross-St. Pancras station." Nothing is ever enough. He required from me a spot, a nonexistent fucking spot. He would not have it any other way and would fight me tooth and nail even though I cannot claim one place as my own. Is it that difficult to fathom that someone without a place of their own would be roaming around hoping to shake off this disease and find a miracle or so mayhap? No, the dunce would rather the specifics, where there happens to be none. I surrender to this system of shittery and would rather deal not with the complications and rest assured that tonight is going to be rough so I can easily move on for the next day.
I still have until tomorrow to unshitten what tiny creases there may be before the more productive hours come to light. That is, go back to my locker for the shoes and other stuff, wash myself clean as a cunt, nab me some food absent worries. Right now I could really use a bit of groom. Once I have sorted out all the simpler things, the next step is to just gauge time and walk swift as intended, walk efficient, and, most of all, walk proud.