Roast

The ash thickens in the throat and the choke is closer than it ever was before.
The mix of the kiss and the miss of what I meant in the roar.
The pounding heart and the thinking mind bound by the kind of hate I adore.

And the silence is louder than the game, me dragging into the now the forgotten and the names.
The clinging scheme, the precious dream of the never ending inner need, forever wanting more.

The useless mind, the long gone times where the worth is questioned to the core.

And now the broken face, the reduced ways, the need to speak of what we waste.
The crisis team, the heartless teen, the perfection of what I see.
The black and white- no time for my selfish self absorbed cries- only the wait,
the endless gray, the change, coming to the fore.

(500) Hours of Cinematography

As much as I am convinced that I know life isn't like the movies, it still feels strange when it doesn't work like that.

There's no emotional Hugh Grant running up to perform in a school concert to save the day, no magic life changing moment where I run through London in a montage powered by a Coldplay song on a winter's morning, stopping by Big Ben and realising that 'YES! This is it! This is life and i'm living it!'

In the same way, there's also no magic ever supporting and faithful Doctor who holds all the cures. There's no two minute recovery shown by a change in seasons. And there's no instantaneous forgiveness, no sudden normality.

If there's anything i've learnt in the last two weeks it's that. That, and the difference between what is my fault, and what wasn't.

For me, there's no Morgan Freeman voiceover explaining why I did it, no warm tone defining my thoughts and motivations.

That would help because fuck me I have no idea

I wish I did so I could deal with it head on, accept and work on that part of me, like the protagonist who runs out to meet his fate, or works his ass off to get the girl.

In Amelie the shy pale faced girl with the estranged childhood falls in love with the ghost who puts together the passport photos. Essentially a giant game of kiss chase. Life in rose tinted reds and yellows. It's not that. It never will be.

I am the stupidity and the foolishness of the lovesick fool who let himself be floored by the blatant obstacle- that moment half an hour before the end when everything falls apart. No matter how well I know the story- how many times it's been told by every version, in every different scenario, I still have that moment of worry- 'ohshitnoyoucan'tbreakthemupbecausethat'snottrueSHEDIDN'TREALLYCHEATONYOUit'sobviousjusttalktoherbrothercomeoooonnnn'

And then ten minutes before the end it's magically fixed. That's not how it goes in real life, and dear lordy I moan about how unrealistic it is- but I still want it.

I'm not particularly fine. I'm not, but as long as i'm working on getting there, then that's ok. I'm stuck in the obstacle- that moment when Damien Rice or Adele plays in the background and there's a shot of a huddled shadow on a bed in a darkened room, interspersed with flashes of bright memories and huge grins and sunshine and friends and all that stuff. When the lead character realises, I've done it all wrong. I've fucked it up. And now I don't know what to do. They wake up in the night and drink and mope. And then the sassy wise cracking friend or sibling comes along, slaps them round the face, tells them to man up, get over it and deal with it.

That's ok. That's all very well. But that's not quite how it works. I want Doctor Cure-it-all's magic one time fixorama pill, guaranteed instant good health and piece of mind and minty fresh breath. Because I can't change what I did. I have to get over it.

Enough of doctors. Just give me decent sleep. And you to know i've seen how stupid it was, how much I care, how sorry I am. No matter how long. Just that.

The movies always say you don't know what you've got til it's gone. The worst cliche, the cheesiest load of crap since 'he's just not that into you'.

I wish it wasn't true.

Lippy Kids

I'm bored of thinking of something to say in rooms full of unspoken words and hidden thoughts.

The fakery has disappeared in a mess of alcohol and holding sobbing bodies in darkened rooms, hiding them away and listening to the stream of broken record thoughts again and again. The warmth of each other in the midst of the struggle but the conflicts and the seeping anger biting through the bullshit and the ridiculousness of the overdramatic. The kind words of friendship growing unimportant in the wind and tears and complications that litter the city that once we controlled, but no longer kings we live under the towering landscape that swallows us up with all the other noises. In between the buses speeding past and the birdsong and digital cries of clubs, the whispers of fragility are lost until everyone screams silently to themselves. Maybe then we'll make sense.

Giving in and giving up because the gravity of others' needs is tearing apart the weight of what's important, and stamping it into the ground under the feet of the seemless masses that huddle in the filthy streets like a confused crowd at a gig, and things are about to kick off. Everything you knew is changing, but this time unexpectedly and what was your hold, your handlebars, has gone.

At The River

I miss your breakfasts. Warm croissants and raspberry jam with orange juice (NEVER from concentrate, god forbid) with bits in, proper coffee and white plates with red and orange round the edge. Radio 4 when it's being put together, and then finally, as we sit at the wooden table on white seats that aren't as white as they used to be, Radio 3 and Brahms and Chopin. Never ever Classic FM (That's just for plebs darling). The four of us, and the Saturday paper (Guardian of course. We're all Labour and Lib Dem round these parts. Middle classes enjoying the frivolity of it all). He takes the news, and she takes culture. Ben has the Guide and I take the magazine, pretending to care about it more than I do, not really reading anything unless it involves full picture pages and a comedian. And it's all frightfully civilised and we tut together at the greed of bankers and laugh at the idiocy of politicians and some Radio 3 presenter introduces another piece and we listen and shake our heads as some fools in a concert hall clap between movements (the horror, the horror of it all). The sun shines through the huge windows and the ducks sit on the dock waiting for some five year old to shower them with breadcrumbs. Ben'll talk about a gig or a band and he'll pretend to know who that is, and then, when all the coffee's gone and i'm bored of pretending to read the magazine we'll disappear off into the house or the city and ignore each other until dinner. And the pastry flakes will fall on the floor and the jam will stick to the plates and the coffee grounds will clog up the sink and the buzz from the radio will give us all headaches but it doesn't matter, because this is the civilised way to do things, and eating cereal on our laps at 3 in the afternoon with a crushing hangover just isn't quite cricket.

Silent Sigh

Another night fades to day in between the greys of the unconcerned mind.

A town that's always lying but only in the city, never in the suburbs.

The cold touch of a could-have been life whistles past in the dark.

As they stagger through the true streets of the plastic city built by robots.

And as she tugs down the sleeves to cover endless dreams they lie together in the emptiness of humanity.

But the stars are long gone and the hearts are not strong enough for the lives they had.

GET OVER YOURSELF

Quiet days as I watch night outs pass me by in a blur of cheap vodka and card games. I am too tired for this.

Watching as butts from angry cigarettes smoked in self hatred pile up below my window, littering the grass and ruining it.

Drinking with care and watching every sip, because too much alcohol fills me up and spills over with my secrets to everyone I know.

Listening to everyone else's problems- an agony aunt filled with desperate pleas from others so they block my own.

And the grip is dragging me down and everything is tightening because this lady isn't working with her soft voice and patronising stare. But it's just me who's not making it work. I'm not trying hard enough. She thinks it's all because I went to an all girls school. Asking the wrong questions.

Vanishing acts into my own mind don't work and this constant internal battling of voices is tiring me but she wants me to carry on. And even this is a fight, just words on a screen but it's too much and it's too self involved. Don't bother with this.

People back home who say they care but it's not true. All lies because I know who I am and I know what I am like.

Nothing like you

I love you so much.

You know who you are.

I wish I was as strong as you, and more than anything I wish I could have been there for you like you're there for me now, if only I knew you as well then. You have given me more then I could ever deserve. And you help me so much and I miss you so much. Tonight, you were exactly what I needed. Right now i'm sending a million telepathic hugs your way.

And i'm glad things have a name now. You made me see this.