Lazy from C-Z

The hours while away, drifting ashore, one foot over the other, nails callously disengaged, protruding, rough. This is my suicide run. Or, more succinctly, my suicide walk . There is only one possible way to do this. All or nothing. Life or death. Fuck the odds. Death it is.

The world is callous and unkind; tt could benefit massively from a cosmic factory settings reset, and yet somehow somewhere somewhen I feel like the same wave that has been undulating all throughout my life remains unfazed by the goings on around us, somehow unperturbed by petty human endeavours, and now I wallow in self-pity once more knowing that nothing ever changes. Absolutely nothing at all.

And then there was music in her shoes. She galloped, she glided, she soared. Upwards ever higher. Lost sight of her in the midst of all the commotion. People surrounded us from all angles watching as the tiny woman sky slowly blurred itself from our visions. The sky was indeed the limit. She was not coming back. None of us could have anticipated how impactful this moment would be for the rest of our miserable lives. It was hard to fathom that someone else's success truly did have some kind of personal repercussion amongst individuals including myself. Never would I have ever imagined a selfish man like me could ever propel my thoughts into such greater heights as hers did, but here I am, burning with a passion of a million exploding suns.

Everything was subtly tense that day, but the air did not betray any sort of omission. Kind of just got carried away by the feeling that somehow it could or could not be. Some of the boys from the day before had granted me a reaffirming copacetism that neither of those that surrounded me provided. so I suppose being thrown off a bus was an understandable and kinder gesture than what I would have hoped. There I was doing the menial things in the hours prior to thinking about being productive, knowing that I was being blamed for any lack of things thereof. Must have swollen that mentally paraplegic woman in bed with laughter once the news broke. Sitting down with a clown and and an assclown, I was presented with my keen reward. I suppose a warm thanks is in order. For all the joys and the pains, the only thing that bothers me most is how quickly I remedy this. Not long after the busybody at home sniffs the dilemma, got me tongue-tied with nothing positive to share, and hoping for the bes...

While the whole ordeal of the wintry escapades in Ukraine finally unfolded, it is best to reflect upon it with a rather observe outlook in counterpart to its climate, which is that my feelings visiting the country, in all its current limitations, have been warm and hospitable, not unlike the expectations that brewed in my mind prior to. It has given me a whole new perspective about Ani, her personality, struggle, humanity. Sort of like stepping into a flurry of faux pas, the kind of which humbles many a man of reasonable sort.

The wilding breeze of white trickled slowly down as we arrived in Slovakia, sanity notwithstanding. The brush of morrow now remains a mystery now wondering if this was even the right idea in the first place. When the first sign of the other acting as though your person is chopped liver hitherto points towards the banality of the significance of the otherness, as though love and faith robs us blind of frustrations and disrespect. First of all, Košice reminds me a lot of secondhand sofa. It was our first stop from London towards Ukraine, in order to soldier the wilding winter white, and for Ani to come to terms with her homesickness, as if I deprive the woman of any capacity to return. My energy is depleted right now as I come to terms that this could be it . Secondly, that first facial whiff of Ukraine inside that cavernous bus ride felt ominous to a higher calling, regardless of the random company that accompanies the commute. The skylight was gone right as we were about to enter, ...

 I keep thinking of you as if it was the only thing that I ever knew even if we have been long gone from each other's perception it never goes away even if I want you to say what we need even if this wish of mine finds no way it will be here to stay

It was a sort of like a callback to the whims and megrims of detritus past, like mud clinging to a wheel, regardless of whether or not the setting of this utterly preposterous ill timings happen here, there, or elsewhere. There is no such thing as a safe space. The safe spaces are merely a conjuration of the all too common mental impediment that plagues that one such fool who preys on other such fools. These all lack the common properties of a heimat , of which most people are in limbo of [represented by "the mud that clings to the wheels" conundrum. Even if one wanted to, it is hardly at fault to find this spirituality deviate from its typical norms. Perhaps the greater attribute one can bestow herein is that the ecumenical buff, once triggered, will initiate a path of self-righteousness looking forward and never back. One of the more menial things one wishes to have seen happen. If only God was as merciful as we are lacking.

Nightmares now dig deeper than vein thrombosis, and somehow it envigourates as soon as the realisation hits. Ani in the background. The shamelessness of it all. It is the only likeness one can build upon of what is left, often evocative, intoxicating, albeit uncalled for. What use would one have to a regret that steals even the loneliest, most solitary reprieve? One begins to imagine an alternative timeline. Of a whatif. Pointless, and yet poignant. The unbearable profundity of this regret, still. Tonight, anticipating heresy.

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...