Two legs bad. No legs and Sticky Out Eyes Better...

Just before I start, or as I start rather, I warn you this may well be introspective drivel yet I have just walked home in the sleet, some called it snow some call it rain... why it's not called swain or snain or raiow heaven knows... and I walked home from the bus stop contemplating, thinking and generally many other thesaurus raped synonyms for looked a bit dozy and inward facing. I listened to Gimme Shelter. I howled at the sleet. well Mick did. I did. inwardly. Thinking why? Indeed.. tis a question with many answers. but tis also a question with many questions. None of which I care to think about on this night..

I have many fears... I have been told I take too many photographs. This is a reaction to the fear of forgetting everything. I have many weird dreams of which I am both frightened and compelled by usually concerning something or someone missing in a shopping centre and or conversations I am not allowed to have in real life. These both baffle and amuse and set me up for a day of computer staring madness. I apologise again if this is also rather short. I have been driven to actual eye problems.. yes I no longer wear my Buddy Holly glasses just to look cool.. they're real, albeit quite weak, lenses deep in the sockets of mine eyes peeking out from the mascara laden hordes of nonsense. This may also be disjointed but I fear that I am disjointed today. I ponder that I cannot think anymore, I worry that I cannot think enough or too much or feel too little or too much. My head is in a constant loop of madness and nonsense and yet I make some small sense in pretending to be quite contented leading to the conclusion that at points I actually am. This manner of introspection has yet again come upon me in a time of great influence of not gin, no nor vodka neither... but a "Thought provoking' film.. God I fucking hate films that "make you think". it doesn't make you think, you were thinking, well most of you were, before you went to it and we project our own futile lives onto a bigger screen for all to see. We share our own innate and stagnant worries so that they may become festering blooms of public displays. I am always one for oversharing. But strangely when others overshare I feel the urge to outdo them. God knows why I've not got that much to share. but maybe I do. I get confused rather by the nature of the human condition and if that's not a pretentious and stagnant brain bloom god knows what is... Perhaps I've been blocked. Perhaps I've been stoppered by some inane idea that sharing is good all the time. I like introspection but I like sharing it with few or many depending on who is about. I often find it makes some others uncomfortable. I may be too emotional some may find that endearing others not. I don't know what to say about that though. I have changed the way I have shared that recently. I have splattered along this rollicking thing of life bashing into people, mostly as I have no sense of balance, and crashing into various hedges simply to bump back along. I thought those crashes were important, significant idealistically challenging. Perhaps. but I would never in a million years stop wanting to feel anything. I have once asked not to. and I have regretted it every day as even though it hasn't come true yet I am always scared that one day I will get some kind of karmic shove up the backside and I'll be a reticent hole in the ground for others to get swallowed up in. I am aware I will possibly read back this post tomorrow thinking hmmm what a load of random crap but I felt this weird urge to write something beautiful. it hasn't happened yet but I feel if I keep typing I will eventually stumble onto the beauty without trying. do we need to try with that? Is it necessary to comment on how utterly amazing the city looked tonight? How much like crying I felt when four ruggedly handsome policemen stormed a Bargain Booze searching for a lonely drunk who may or may not have caused some kind of ruckus but was now sound asleep at the bus stop? Did they honestly think it was necessary to save two girls from this lonely old man with a beard? They asked if he'd bothered us. we said no. They hassled him anyway. Maybe I'm too cynical thinking they've taken him away for punishment when really it was cold and he was asleep at a bus stop but the rescue fantasy has become somewhat of an archaic throw up that reached into my gullet and tugged on my gag reflex one too many times. I am subject to it. God yes I am I suppose. I can barely rescue myself but I do try. and I do succeed more often than not. but it's the times when others might rescue you without you even asking and I find that few people can do that. I have met only 1 or 2 who I've not asked to help me but have selflessly done so. I have felt helpless and been helped but helped myself. I can't decide if that's egotistical, self reflecting or just plain narcissism wrapped up in nicer terms but sneezing on my own in my cold cold room thinking about something that could've made staring at the drunken man in the back of the car cut out against the bombed out church does not always help. I have been told on more than one occasion that I am a smelly person haha yes yes I am a stinky person. No that's not what I meant. Apparently I live life in a big olfactory factory. I smell something and I remember. I smell shampoo left behind and I think back to a day ending with a nice warm shower and a rain storm elsewhere. I smell a pillow and remember sleep and screaming and silliness and I smell a leaf and think of well I don't know. I smell the parting of my fingers after I've been out in the rain and it smells like honey. I think that might be why I feel so utterly wretched today. I have the beginnings of a cold and I am worried for myself over such a silly thing as thinking too much when really I long to be able to think more. I cannot smell much today and it is stunting my stupid silliness that I am usually overbrimming with. I'm sick of being forced into a role of happiness that I don't always feel. I'm not saying I"m not a happy person as I am I am joyously happy but when I feel most happy I want to cry.. with happiness. and I don't get it. I'm not supposed to obviously. but surely everybody at some point feels like that and I hate that. I am unique yet so is everybody. I am scared of the mundane I fear one day becoming it. I fear I may already have done but then I know in my heart of hearts that unless I am forcing myself into something else I'm pretty fucking cool haha..

I am after all trapped in a state of crapness at work. I am starting to get into a routine that I don't think everybody escapes and everybody keeps telling me I will but I'm petrified that I don't know what I want to do and will be stuck there forever, the more people offer other suggestions the more defensive I become and the more I just want to run away and be a hermit in a little cottage possibly in France and feed horses apples and go skinny dipping in my own eel free lake that is always lukewarm and refreshing and eat my own grown oranges.
I'm not sure why I'm writing any of this but whenever it rains I always think of 7 snails. I used to live in a house where I was on my own, well supposedly, for a lot of the summer, and one day I sat in the monsoon like rain storm that can only happen at the dead of night in the middle of summer where it's just become too heavy and hot to not rain. I stared at the moon in the way my Romantic side does, wishing I could somehow capture some kind of semblance of that utterly benevolent and beautiful moment and I noticed that in the rainy reservoirs gathering at my feet there were seven snails rushing towards my doorstep. They were going so fast, or the night was going so slowly they seemed supersonic, and all from different directions. It was like they'd arranged that on a darkened night they'd get together at my doorstep to prove humanity wrong that they were quite fast actually and that they were going to plot to take over the world. So I sat and watched them. Carefully trying to pretend that I wasn't eavesdropping on their plans for world domination. Till this day I'm still awaiting a benevolent race of divine snails to sweep down from the rainclouds and prove humanity wrong. That they also feel, that they also cry from their strange stalky eyes. I can't stand standing on snails, it feels somewhat revolutionary or mutinous to crush their small little homes and destroy something so squidgy and sweet looking. So utterly futile and pretty and silly.This isn't how I imagined writing about the snails for the first time. I was going to write a beautiful epic poem saving all my ideas for some long and undiluted ode to the silence they created around me but fuck it.
I'm going to write it in work tomorrow instead of saving the world of banking I'm going to help the snails in their plight to take over the world.
night xx