Right, so –

It’s the weekend. And thank fuckity for that.

I’m drunk, and will probably regret this entry in the morning, but God knows I carry enough secrets around in my pockets (which are in dire need of some holes) – from work, from life, from the past – and have nowhere else to offload. This is about as good as it gets. If I feel like I’m yelling into thin air, so much the better; I couldn’t express all of this in a conversation, on or offline. I talk to myself all the time anyway, an old habit of childhood, born out in an adult’s solitude.

Listening to Nick Drake, “Clothes of Sand”, and wishing for the furthest shoreline. Missing my home, wherever it may be. Somehow, missing parts of my family too, for all that we often can’t be in the same room together without the sniper rifles coming out.

Will you worship moons in winter’s night?

I’ve gotten too hung up on audience, and this is in no way a reflection on any of you, or a jagged piece of glass left on the path for unwary feet. But writing has become such a chore over the past few months, whether from boredom at the sound of my own voice, or being strung up on the barbed wire of inhibitions … I don’t know, but what was once an outlet, has become little more than a task I force myself into of an evening, after a shift that seemed endless, and a life that stretches out in a week-to-a-weekend, and before you know it – Monday morning again.

Same old song, right. You all know the lyrics.

So it’s necessary to make this entry count, because I have terrible PMT (sorry, guys reading this) and am in a blue-black mood, and crying in the shower just doesn’t cut it anymore. Tears lost down the drain, vanished into the rain, are only an invisible projection of something soon forgotten (once the headache is gone, and the stuffy nose sorted.) See, here again – I would hate to bother any of you with my problems, and don’t want your sympathy/empathy, though am ever-grateful for what is given, if this could make sense (I’m writing freefall here, bear with me) –

But as I said, if I can’t offload here, what other thin air is there in the world, to throw emotions into? I’ve never understood the concept or the need for talking, for crying, but somehow they still seem to make us feel better afterwards.

Anyway. That’s me done, and Nick Drake has moved onto “Northern Sky.” My other favourite.

That’s my self-indulgent twaddle for the night. Now I can get on with the other writing.

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