Monthly Archives: January 2013

Tonight was the turn of Ryan, a young man of Cardiff, his 21 years evidently plastered all over his youthful face. Without sounding as if this kid was simple, he was simple. I mean this in the kindest of manner; a simple shared laugh at something insignificant, a lack of knowledge of his own country, and a dreamer, one that could suggest such simplicity in catching a plane to Italy. As if it were that easy. His Bonnie, a 14 year old Jack Russell pig-alike, would make a fine suitor for my funny looking Staffy-cross, we joked. My complexity stood out, I felt it all over me, restraining itself, shown through a continuous shortening of lengthy words. Or through mirroring his simplicity by keeping conversation light, of where we lived, what we do, and a TV show he’ll appear on on the BBC. A kind face he had, with an unobtrusive naivety, a glow of irresponsibility – and yes, envy strikes.

21 was a great year for me; I robustly proclaim how the year was one of my finest. Of course, I don’t even remember why now, I just remember a feeling, a brilliant euphoria. I was in love, I was at uni, I had a huge 21st b’day party in which I felt truly loved, my skin glowed, my manner was free, I had no responsibility, I had no idea of how tough things would become, no idea how family life would make me succumb. A great year was 21. And I just hope that Ryan can keep such naivety and let freedom beseech him.


Stop this light from shining, it’s blinding and entwining
my soul with confused twigs and leaves
as the breeze it tries to fall them.

Let this be true, a sonic wave of feeling emits the gut
it turns my mind into lusty smut;
to think this could be nothing.

It’s probably best that you just go, this isn’t me,
this isn’t how it works for me, so,
let me be, I’ll roam alone.

Secretly I need you to love me, so many years,
can’t you see? If not for desperation,
then for a hand that touches me
with a sense of adoration.

Thursday turned in to Friday and with that it was my birthday. Meanwhile I had been chatting to this guy online, filling the late night with random banter.

Two days later he is cautious in doing so but declares what he believes to be a state of ‘in love’ with me. Between my ventures in to the night with friends who fulfilled a need of which I am so grateful for, humbled almost, I spoke with him online.

Before I dismiss how brilliant a time I had on my birthday, I am most grateful for my friends turning up and my mother for cooking with love hearty home meals. They made me laugh, we talked of ridiculous and probably vile stuff, we laughed some more, drank and ate, and were merry. The following night we drank in the city centre and ended up at a bar before returning back to mine, in what has come to be known as The Party Bedroom. I gave it that title by the way, and I don’t think anybody has referred to it in such a way.

So anyway, the guy was online. This one’s from Greece. There’s something about a connection like that that is ever so surreal and endearing in equal measure. I don’t love him and I think it’s absurd for him to think he loves me after just a couple of days, but damn is it nice to have somebody appreciate me like that.

For four weeks now, I’ve been changing my state of mind through my stomach and through abstaining from blatant self destruction and I feel the benefits. I’m on a spiritual path, through a couple of friends’ help, they’re guiding me somewhat.

I feel so positive, loved, appreciated and I’m back on my way to feeling whole again.

Now, just need to stop missing him, after I locate my feet back on the ground.
He’ll be gone soon, I think. But that doesn’t make me sad.
I just don’t want him to go yet.

It’s my birthday soon. I’ll be 28. Usually for somebody of this age, it’s a time for celebration. I’ve not been feeling most acquainted with a celebratory mood due to the fact of my forever whinging attitude to life, and the blame culture of which today I’ve convinced myself it’s completely fine to uphold.

The blame on my father for leaving us to get remarried, ultimately landing on my fragile head the role of “man of the house”. Of course no members of my family purposely attributed this role to me, it just so happened. But I’m over that now. And that role isn’t mine. Though if I did man up a little, some pressure would probably be taken off of my mother. Even though she’s given me her bank card to get a hair cut tomorrow and be able to get in to town to meet somebody who will become a part of my online magazine team. Hardly helping with relieving the pressure, huh?

The blame on the government for somehow being the cause of my jobless effect and the tirade of application rejection of which I’ve yet to become accustomed to, even after a year and a half. Of course in the latter stage of this period of time I hardly put in the effort to get a job, so I’ve relinquished such blame in an absolute way, none entirely though. Today, I read another rejection, and for a job I really really really really wanted. The repetition of “really” is only to convince myself, and you the reader, that I did in fact really want it. I think deep down, I was just kidding myself. Because what I want to do is go forth with my own business, which leads me on to the next point.

The blame on my uncle & auntie for stealing my name for the benefit of them. Now that I am the owner of an apartment, however lovely that sounds, I have no rights to any benefits that are so due to me. I hate benefits but they did ease me of the torment of staying couped up inside with my narcissism and random negative conversations I have with myself, and quite the bad attitude at times too. Although my name is on the apartment, I reap no rewards from this; a pawn in heavy tax avoidance, that is me. No benefits, no little tiny hint of life, no real progression and interaction with the world. They’ve drained me of my freedom, the one thing that my spirit so needs and the one thing I had control over.

I could probably be artistic with the above, I’m an emblem of these times, of a horrid government. If only I could paint I’d decorate the canvas with pain, boredom, loneliness, helplessness, depression, stifled claustrophobia, lack of self esteem and lots of cigarettes. Ironic that I could maintain the luxury of smoking through all of this; yet another reason to beat myself up, taking from the poor (my family, who by definition are not poor but just making ends meet) to feed my habit. That’s by the by.

I am a person of strength, a quiet strength, a lonely strength. I battle with myself most days, quietly, unassumingly. My sexuality, my personality, my ethnicity, my roots, my social circle, my ageing skin, my body, my penis, my lack of job, my lack of role in society.

On the plus side, my friends are coming over to mine to devour my mother’s home cooked curry, of which she hasn’t done since we moved in to this new house last March. That in itself has put a smile on my face and I am so fucking over the moon that people are coming around to see me, little old me, on my birthday. They probably don’t know how much I appreciate it right now, and I probably won’t have the balls to tell them, but maybe that can be the conclusion to this random and unforeseen post:

tell everybody who counts how much they mean to me, and give thanks.

And then I listen to music and it’s like a big hit of heroin.


Fire Dragon
A headline caught my eye on Friday—26 year old commits suicide. His photo showed a good-looking, dark-eyed man with a warm smile. Aaron Swartz. I didn’t know who he was, but I found myself wondering why in the world such a young, handsome man would take his own life—which was a stupid thought, because it implied pretty people would have less of an urge to kill themselves.

I read the article on him, discovered he was a child prodigy, a genius, who at 14 co-created RSS. He was one of the early builders of the social-news site, Reddit (later sold to Conde Nast), and a hacker extrodinaire who simply believed information should be able to be shared on the internet without a price.

He was scheduled to go on trial in a few weeks for stealing millions of scholarly documents from a computer archive at the Massachusetts Institute of…

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Of recent, the past few months, I find myself in this room quite often. It’s as if a switch has been flicked and there’s no cognitive recognition of how to unflick it. I’m lost; I find myself here as if a discarded item of clothing after a night out. It’s 3:33am. Paranoia makes me believe I see this exact time day in and out but I relieve my anxiety by reminding myself that I clock watch, time is no friend of mine though it’s the thing that grabs my attention most throughout the day. It laughs in the face of ideas and plans, it jeers at how little I make use of it, at how my attempts of controlling it are futile.

Inside this room I sit on the floor in the centre, my knees pulled up against my chest, one foot crossed over the over as I bow my head in shame. The four walls are made up of television screens and on them are my thoughts, desires, failures and wishes in neon green type circumnavigating the room; the subtitles to my life.

I don’t want to be in here but freedom is as hard a notion as remaining. My breathing exceeds typical heart rate, I perspire at the thought of the next thought. Insomnia spurs on internal bruising, mind games, schizophrenic reasoning.

The key to the room is hidden, I seek it on a full time basis, to no avail. I’m locked in and whilst I am, I torment myself, repeatedly interrogating, prodding as if a unknown being newly discovered. I’m lost. The room begins swelling with liquid, it forms puddles at my feet, sporadic droplets is the only accompanying noise.

And I just want to be released.

I want it to stop.

We live in a world so obsessed with politics, with making changes. It’s all noise to me. It’s like the interference of a radio, white noise. “White noise”. Is that even politically correct anymore? Question Time, a politics debate show on the BBC in the UK, professes that there should be more working class people in parliament, representing the views of wider society. That’s truth. I just watched a TV programme entitled ‘Growing Up Poor’. It explores the nature of teenagers living on around £8 per day, the typical benefit pay outs from the government. Watching that made me realise I live in luxury, so why I maintain such depressive tendencies is beyond me. Possibly because I don’t fit in to what society deems as successful. I’m currently without a major job and damn is it depressing to be held back though there’s a burning ambition within.

All I want is an easy life. I envision a smile, white teeth, staring back at me. I’ll guess the country is Brazil. I’ve formed a slight obsession with that country of recent; the boy I met on the cam chat website is the first instance of falling in love with the place, then I guess my fondness of beaches, brown skin and diverse culture. It all starts with me running away.

He’ll be intelligent, smart and witty. That’s who’ll be looking back at me. I never picture a woman looking back at me anymore. My how times have changed. Or maybe there never was a woman. Maybe that was just the product of me being society’s product.

We’re neatly packaged beings who over time have succumbed to this tradition of slavery. It’s too much for me. I just want that beach and the boy. The boy who’s going to love me whatever the shape of my nose is, whatever wage I’ve brought that week, however big my penis, however crude my humour.

I don’t know him yet
But boy do I miss the boy.