My eyes trace lazy outlines on the ceiling, imaginary flight paths for ethereal aircraft between the shadows of land. I was talking with a friend about impending travels to lands I vaguely remember through cocaine tinted eyes, my mind lit up at talking about jet setting, briefly, scarcely remembering the coalescing depression and ennui that wrapped itself warm and dull around my mind when I walked into the party.

Tiny planes carrying trains of thought, my passion for my art a passenger on the one drifting with little haste toward the light fixture. I was reading Pablo Neruda earlier in the evening, "I loved her, and sometimes, she loved me too." wondering why that was sitting in my wandering contemplation then realising that I was comparing it to my art. I loved it, and sometimes it deigned to love me back.

Imagined contrails fade as my mind trails off, the only journey I can’t see above me is mine. Something that hits me hard several times a day, but I break it down in to parts that are manageable and try not to dwell on things longer than I need to. My place is in the sky but I’ll have to settle for walking a little while longer.

Awake and walking, dreaming and flying.

"Be humble for you are made of earth. Be noble for you are made of stars."

-Serbian proverb

"…you’re stronger than that."
"But you…"

He cut his sentence short as she glared at him, tears running freely from her eyes as she repeated her reply through gritted and bared teeth.

"Don’t feed me that garbage again, everyone says the same thing and it’s not fucking tr-"

She was stunned, he was on his feet now stalking the room while fumbling with a cigarette.

"You’re not fucking strong okay? You’re weak and shit happened and you can’t deal with it and you’re weak okay? Is that what you want?"

He slumped back into the chair, pushing out a smoke-filled sigh.

"We’re all weak, that’s how living works. It hurts and you feel like shit but that’s the price of being alive sometimes. Sometimes we’re all fucking weak, we all get to be hurt in stunning and wonderful ways and that’s living, that make you feel better kid?"
"Of course it doesn’t, so don’t give me shit for trying to help you up. You want to keep being weak, keep doing that. Just stay down in the dirt with that mindset. Weak is easy, weak is a fucking warm bath on a cold day that tells you its okay to ignore the world."

He chained the next cigarette, collecting the rest of his thoughts.

"You want to be strong that’s a whole other thing. That takes guts, fucking… hardened steel constitution. You heal by finding strength, your strength, somewhere deep in you. I know it’s there but hell that doesn’t mean a damn thing unless you can draw it out."

She’d stopped crying and was staring at some spot on the floor, he finished his cigarette and felt tired again. A tired old man in a cheap suit.

"What ever you choose to do just do it already. You want to keep being weak, keep doing…"

He gestured broadly to the darkened room, half burned incense and candles mixed with empty liquor bottles and used tissues.

"…whatever this is. You want to be strong, then get up and get help."

"Freedom’s possibility is not the ability to choose the good or the evil. The possibility is to be able."

-The Concept of Anxiety, Søren Kierkegaard

I don’t know where to write from these days, I kind of worry about burning out people with my darkness so I force myself to try and pull from somewhere else.

It’s frankly terrifying when people ask me what I’m doing. The more sarcastic part of me wants to just bite back, but I can’t hate people for being shallow. Shallow is easy, it’s painless, if I could do it God knows I would.

No, I made a promise that I wouldn’t.

And so I answer the same rehearsed speech and try to guide the conversation elsewhere. Make them feel satisfied they’ve done what they can to “be a friend” and leave it alone. I wonder if it’s always going to be like this, fade into my mind and go through the motions of social interaction praying that I don’t have to go any deeper.

Why? Because they don’t really care, and not in some pathetic “woe is me” way, in the same way that we all don’t care. Not about everyone. That would be too difficult, a burden that no person could carry without breaking into a million pieces. Nor should they, if anyone expects the entire world to care about how they feel then they need to grow the fuck up.

I should.

Every morning I struggle to find something to feel happy about, and every night I struggle to find something to feel anything about. Rinse and repeat.

Always repeat.

I’m trying very hard to put a pin in my career and just throwing whatever at the wall for money. God I miss money. I miss paying my bills on time. I miss not thinking about that cup of coffee. But then I’m not fucking ready to give up on this. 14,000 graduates last year and I’m one of 50 that have a masters degree. That’s gotta count for something, right? Right?

Listen to me, I sound like a death row inmate talking about a life wasted. I’m 26 and I have a decent beard going, that’s a win. I need wins.

Spent the last few hours reading about how to become a war-zone photographer, seems like the best answer is buy a ticket to where the shooting is and hope you don’t become a statistic.

God I miss money.

"I had no idea how I was going to escape. At least the others had some taste for life. They seemed to understand something that I didn’t understand. Maybe I was lacking. It was possible. I often felt inferior. I just wanted to get away from them. But there was no place to go."

- Ham On Rye, Charles Bukowski

It’s always midnight in my mind.
In my perfect world it’s always midnight.

When it’s dark the monsters in my mind sleep.
I can ignore the sadness in the quiet.

The rain never stops in my mind.
My perfect world shimmers in the black.

A random tattoo, beat on the earth.
Washing reality away with a chaotic monotone.

I never speak in my mind.
Silence is king in my perfect world.

No answers given or needed.
Time to recover from lying to myself.

It’s always midnight in my mind.
The longest second in my perfect world.

"Melancholy sees the worst of things,—things as they may be, and not as they are.
It looks upon a beautiful face, and sees but a grinning skull.”

Intuitions and Summaries of Thought, Christian Nestell Bovee

Melt away, make ‘em smile and just fade into the past.

An old life friend was worried, scared about the way I vanish, they didn’t want me to slip through the cracks. They wanted me around, alive in their life, they wanted me to exit on a spotlight.

Mind draws grey blanks, crisp recollections fading away into soft nothing.

I can’t remember her face, or her name. I tried so hard to forget and now it’s happened I’m not sure why I did. I walk alone in my dreams now, it’s hard to imagine anything else.

Mistakenly thinking that this is easier, how’s that line go?

We under value the moment, always wanting it to be shared and given in public stages. My best moments, my dearest moments, are the ones I’ve stolen for myself and kept away from the world.

Made in silence, given to no-one…

"All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain…"

- Blade Runner, (1982)

Stumbling on, the world ringing in ears, flashes of colours and light whip past unfocused eyes.

Punch-drunk and numb to the overzealous stimulus, a slow and hyperactive death by a thousand neon cuts.

Are we at the end yet? How long has it been… wandering the wilds alone, alone surrounded by the lonely. We’ve gotta be close.

To find silence seems like cheating, an unusual glitch unexploited. We’re gonna do this thing right. Only one way to quiet, dark, peace.

Only one way.

And we’re almost there.

"We’re all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn’t. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing."

- The Captain is Out to Lunch and the Sailors Have Taken Over the Ship, Charles Bukowski

"The Gap" by Ira Glass.

Brilliant advice for young (and not so young) creatives.

How close to the edge can you push it? Throwing the weight into corners, left foot brake to save seconds, blipping the accelerator, feeling the slide on the very limit of control.

Gravel spits from spinning tyres, steering jumps to life as the differential pulses power from wheel to wheel at the beck and call of the traction control.

Basic physics dictate the rules of the fight, friction versus momentum, altering the outcome is a skill not yet mastered. Counter-steer and pull back from the brink, power-slide is a reward for maintaining your mettle.

I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over.
Out on the edge you see all the kinds of things you can’t see from the center.

- Kurt Vonnegut


I bump Aston Martin music while rolling in my Honda
You say it’s delusion but it’s just the way my mind wanders
Switch track, singing Superstition in my hatchback
Thinkin about the things that I keep dragging in my rucksack
Black cats and broken mirrors, are they bad signs?
I just figure it all depends on your state of mind

Mine is decidedly backwards, barely kept in place with tacks
Words fail me, vocab and letters poof
They themselves proof of my detached and floating attitude
How do I see myself? The baddest, rudest dude?
Better yet maddest geezer yelling from the corner
About hipster crews tryin to score dank from a brother
My views are crazy but they stack bank for a brother
I send em on their way with a bag of herbs and spices
They choose to profile so I show them what nice is

I don’t help the cause, I still walk like I got a pocket full
So of course the moustache and fixie crew come sniffin for a hit or two
I feel a little bad for they next of kin because they think
They can dance with the White Lady and win, and because I’m AZN
I must know someone that can get em lit,
The only time lying doesn’t feel like sin
Well, maybe a little bit
The broken glass from those aforementioned mirrors
Jingle and glitter, bad luck tipped from my back
To make room for what I need to make this last
Rhyme so special and poignant to the younger set
I think hard and cue the track on my deck

I bump Aston Martin music while rolling in my Honda…

"She was totally flirting with you bro!"

No, she wasn’t. But it was a nice thought… well, nice distraction anyway. God knows I could use a few more of those lately, after all ignorance can be bliss if you use it correctly.

Grimacing at the song currently playing on my boombox, I had relinquished control after repeated and irritating requests to put something more friendly on.

Friendlier than De La Soul.


At least the sunglasses hid my disgust as the sand warmed my back through my mat.

"So… how’s the new job?"
"Don’t change the subject, you should’ve made a move!"

Well fuck, so much for that.

I didn’t make a move because I couldn’t be bothered. If we boil it down, I’m single because I’m apathetic, and kinda lazy. I had a long conversation the other week about the subject, my response to my future had no mention of anyone other than me.

That’s how it starts right? I actually can’t picture a future where I’m in a committed relationship… next up I have the animal shelter on speed-dial and am buying cats by the cubic metre.

"Whatever, you should try being happy more often. I hear it’s pretty popular."

Yeah and so is this song, but I still want to put a bullet in my head when it plays.

"Can I put my music back on now?"

"I feel guilty for being a member of the human race."

- Big Sur, Jack Keruoac