Reaching out, reaching out… but my hands simply grasp in the dark. My heart leaps and misses. My mind fails to connect. Love is a death pool. And here I am, the fool who still hopes and clings and strives only to be greeted with a dark and bitter silence. There are some who remain upon the periphery, always afraid of being too close or of giving too much, but there are others who simply dwindle and disappear… they are so deeply lost in their lives of convention and routine. I’m a broken record, a broken heart, a hopeless and broken fool who still clings to bonds long since severed by one of the atoms.

In our imperfections lies our beauty. It is our imperfections that make us unique and alluring… this is the case with every human being I find attractive and it is the case with the forms of music and literature that I love. Animals too. There is a cat who often waits around in my garden around the time that I get home from work. This cat only has three legs and yet walks with perfect balance and grace. He is cross-eyed and his eyes appear to have cataracts of some kind, yet they are beautiful and understanding. When I step out of my car he runs to me and allows me to run my hand down his back once, just once, then he makes a noise and walks away. He is an amazing example of endurance and survival. He has had a tough life and yet he just peacefully lingers upon the grass next to the flowers and awaits a little bit of love or attention or joy… he is just like us… but better than some.

When the book closes you are gone… and I am once more alone… but the words continue to speak to me and as I walk through the street back to my house to escape the masses of people all crammed into their cars and stuck in traffic jams as they try to make it to the parks to linger in the sun I think of how it was that you lived, refusing to compromise, suffering starvation, cold, and homelessness in the pursuit of your dream and through your persistence you achieved it. It truly is an inspiration but at the same time it makes me feel like something of a failure or that I am living a lie and selling my soul to the only bidder who will have it. I sell my soul in fear of hunger and hopeless homelessness. I constantly dabble in the things that I love to do such as sit here and write these very words but they certainly have no mass (or minor) appeal and would never allow escape from the relentless pace of the corporate pursuit of profit.

I am becoming increasingly excited about the Master’s Degree – both the actually study as well as the graduation – because I hope that, in the long run, it will allow me to teach and possibly write at the same time. I have also started to develop the motivation to continue some of the larger writing projects that I have had on hold for a little while.

In the wake of non-stop bad news regarding my parents and their health and the health of my surviving grandfather, I aim to be more positive in the pursuit of the things that I want to do. No matter what happens, we all end up old and ill and therefore we may as well try to do things that we like if it all possible. Of course, I say these things in the knowledge that so many people suffer horribly (and always have throughout time) and that they are forced to do terrible things simply to feed themselves and their families. With this in mind, I am grateful for what I do have.

Sometimes you have to leave the house. Sometimes, when the knives and razors and pills and bottles are calling your name, you have to leave the house. Sometimes you do silly things like come to the bar and sit alone drinking beer in the presence of a woman you love from afar and it probably does nothing other than make you look like an idiotic, lonely fool. Sometimes you're already drunk and your bicycle, although dangerous, is the only means of transport and you push yourself to go out and blow lots of money and to drink a lot more because the alternative is a lonely death of a broken heart or something colder. Sometimes as you're sitting in the bar, drinking, alone, you start to think that you may throw up and you almost cease to care.
There is a guy in the bar telling the staff it is his birthday... he keeps telling them it’s his birthday... he's telling them he plays guitar... he keeps repeating that he'd rather live in Spain. I sense the bar lady's pain. No one cares. We all have a boring story.

All of today’s writings and joys have just changed. Funny how a few words can cause that emotional black cloud to arise. The ice at some point must thaw... this fucking ice age that has set in physically and metaphorically. It is said that one should not run away from problems. But what exactly is running away? Some say ‘don’t run away’ and some say ‘don’t waste your life doing the things that you don’t want to do.’ For decent pay we stay and do not pack up and pursue our true dreams. I know that chasing my own dreams would more than likely result in living on a park bench and, to be honest, I am not the kind of person who could survive that. I’d say a week on a park bench (at most) and I’d be dead. But what is life off the bench? Are we merely flogging a dead horse? Someone is getting rich whilst I can’t afford to buy a gift for a friend. Some have skills and deserve what they have. Others are very good at kissing arse and jumping through hoops. The arse kissers, the keeners, the ones who ask no questions and simply conform and comply are the ones who get ahead. Do what everyone has always done and follow the traditions and judge everything that falls just outside of the margins... just outside of your blinkered view.

Don't take everything so seriously. Don't take everything you read so seriously. Don't take yourself so seriously. You will often find that you're not as good as you think you are or that you're not as bad as you think you are. Often you will find those who believe themselves to be good are actually pretty bad and those who believe themselves to be bad are usually quite good. Consider creativity. Consider art. Consider art for art’s sake... as Wilde once did. If my eye bleeds it's probably down to the conflict inside. If I torture myself it’s because I’ve lost something and art often resembles it or reminds me of it even if that art is your naked body, your lips, eyes and hair. I write for I must. Calm down. We’re exploring. We’re exploring the mind. We’re exploring the limits of our minds and of society and of our moral consciousness and of our bodies. Everything must be done to test the limits of rational thought but also to test and to push the conservative herd. We prod and poke and hope to make tiny dents upon the road to change.

Beautiful writing left to us by authors who penned their thoughts and troubles are often so electric and joyous that they are enough to help us through the dark night. Often when there has been negative communication or a hopeless breakdown or even just a hopeless, cold longing... the wonderful words of another human being put to page many years ago are like a guiding light for the heart and mind. Tonight, as I read Dusklands, I found myself thinking ‘wow’ mid-page and wanting to start again just to try to absorb more of the incredible poetic prose and imagery as it oozed from the page and filled my mind like a tiny vessel.
These words written for the sake of one’s own sanity are so much more rewarding than those death words sent by ex-lovers and friends. Death words... the only words I know when it comes to love. Never the less, these are the words by which we learn and suffer. And through suffering and learning comes greater understanding and creativity. The simple joys of life become all the more appealing and pleasure can be derived from the simple taste of an olive or a sip of wine or a cold winter walk along the river under glistening white trees.

I dreamt about you again, this time on much more favourable terms, and when I awoke I got out of bed and took my shorts off to put something warmer on in the freezing cold morning. As I stood, naked, at the foot of the bed, I suddenly recalled the times I’d do the same whilst you lay in my bed and, upon those mornings, as I took my shorts off, you would say ‘ooh la la’ with enthusiasm. I thought you were insane but I, naturally, loved it. I remember the time that I got out of bed the moment I awoke and you said ‘wait, you can’t get out of bed yet.’ I asked why and you answered ‘because we can’t go to work without having sex... that would just be wrong.’
And so I sit here feeling better, almost revelling in my better health, sipping a glass of wine and eating crisps, cursing the lack of exercise I have had during recent times and yet feeling good because my memories of you at this point seem only to be sweet and the bitter pain of losing you has faded. I’m not sure if too much time has passed or if my emotions have passed away... but even the fact that you ignore me now when I message you doesn’t seem to hurt me as much as it once did.
I’m dead inside and that somehow helps. I also numb the remnants of pain with this African wine and the soothing sounds of music created by the troubled individuals of this world. I saw a program on television tonight about the link between madness and creativity. I believe that it is an established fact that madness and creativity go hand in hand and it was even said that a break down in mental health often results in a spike of beautiful creativity before it results in complete madness and obscurity and/or death.