untitled #1

Monday 6th June, 2011 - 7:42pm with 0 comments

I’m typing this on the train. I think that there are many things crossing my mind right now like how I’ll go about posting this. Like the interview I had about an hour ago. Like… I do not even know.

And then remembering the fury through my head that no longer exists. And then recalling every time I did something like that and oh, well, sorry I got in trouble. Sure.

I’m sorry to the people around me I guess. I’m not really sorry for what I did. I did it anyway so what’s the point? I clearly intended to do so, at least, in the two cases I can remember.

I want to live on a farm and just sleep forever. Away from what is the civilisation that I encounter in daily life. Really terrible.

Sometimes I don’t know what I get myself into, but at the same time I know the next day will bring something better. Yeah, it’s a mystery alright, but it’ll be a gift at some point. I don’t know if I care about that either.

I’m hearing two guys in front of me have a chat. They seem to have just met, or met only recently, because they’re asking each other about where they live. There’s a man texting over on my right, some distance forward. He looks like an old version of Graham Coxon. Ruffled dark hair, glasses. Could just be the glasses, but his nose has that rigid resemblance. Perhaps if he chopped his fringe straight he’d look more like the dorky British musician I’ve come to love.

Oh, Greenstone. I deleted you earlier today. Uninstalled. Gone. Every trace of the program, at least, from my computer. Sure, missus, you’re hard-backed, broad-shouldered, can take shit. Well, I’ve had enough of taking yours that I can’t even be bothered spending time giving you shit to take.

I realise I am almost halfway through my train trip, and then I forget why I started typing – momentarily – and then I remember that I was annoyed, and no longer am.

I don’t know how hard it is to be thick-skinned from being a sensitive and fragile being. I feel like I’m getting there, but I’m afraid of saying so in the case that someone hacks off my arm and tells me that I’m not. Why? Because I know it’ll hurt, I know then, that they are right. And I don’t know how much of my life is spent proving people I am wrong. Yeah, I can be wrong, and I don’t mind being wrong – but it is when someone says something, sometimes, that isn’t – that I want to prove it’s not.

Posted on: Monday, June 6th, 2011 at 7:42 pm
Categories: Contemplation
Tags: journeys
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