Disappointment

I am on the train home and I haven’t even begun to think about how to tell my dad I had an existential crisis, quit my job and plan to coast around until I have only enough money to spoon beans into my arid mouth. 

Imagine telling god you wish not to exist.

Imagine meeting your maker.

Dad, I’ve lost my shit and I sort of don’t give a fuck either.

Dear Sylvia

Dear Sylvia  

I am listening to the bray of my heart and I am,

I am,

I am, ok.

I am eating breakfast as if it were my last and not feeling the slightest bit elated.

I am a man in baggy black workwear on the tube annihilating a bag of family sized popcorn 

I am listening to your words and wishing I could adhere

I am living my days to the fullest and hoping

I am waiting for a train that hopefully will never turn up 

I am wondering if it’s possible I will feel this way forever, and if so, I am feeling hopeless.

I am.

I am staring at your smug pouting mouth and knee highs whilst wishing you adversity; unfortunately 

I am wishing ill upon all as I reach three-day-hangover territory. 

I am wishing I hadn’t seen you today using the tone that only I can stop you employing.

I am staring into space and asking myself repeatedly, what am I going to do now?

I am still the reindeer stood coyly at the buffet table.

I am trying.

I am.

I am.

I am.

Together We Are Wider Than Anything.

We stood up and measured ourselves against everything we could find. We measured the tips of our fingers to the points of our elbows and compared them to the panels in the wooden doors, lining them up precisely; edging palms up, straightening each ulna. We took the edges of each eye and we spun and spun until we knew exactly how many Mississippi’s it took eye to eye around the backs of our living minds. How tall are you compared to this fern? Here, let me place your finger in the crack of the wooden floorboard. It’s but a fingernail wide; the baby, that is. Where is your nose in relation to this light switch? We compared ourselves to the world and this we did every Sunday; Our only way to distinguish between life and death.

The Mighty Catfish.

The mighty catfish sunk to the floor

It sunk so far it could go no more

And then one day it saw the light

Saw the light and decided to fight.

It raised one whisker up from the sea bed

Raised it way, way above it’s head.

It said, “Hey World, I think it’s time

To stand up and to take what’s mine!”

And sooner or later it was flying high

Flying high in the media industry up in the sky.

But I’ve always been an angry drunk.

It’s frustrating. Like the reoccurring dream where I try to remove a garment and it snaps back on. Don’t you get it?  I just want to remove my dungarees.

There are questions inside of questions. Tiny questions hiding inside big questions like why do I exist like this and should I eat less meat? I shout the questions to the abyss and nothing comes back. I am Zack Braff, Peter Sarsgaard and Natalie Portman. I am shouting in the rain in a bin bag, every day, inside myself. Yanking the dungarees, losing parts of myself.

And every day it’s total annihilation. Drunk and sad, and sex with married men and drugs and shrugging and 2am messages to the man who never, ever loved me. And I’m empty and I’m lost and I wish it were a game of hide and seek. I just want to be found.

But I’ve always been an angry drunk.