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Skylight

Landlady stood stern with her crinkly arms crossed suspiciously, one impatient foot tap away from a raised eyebrow. She examined my swollen black eye, most likely thinking about what she was getting herself into.

It was a nice one-bedroom flat, small but with enough space for me on my own. I could hide on the top floor with everything I needed. The kitchen is the same room as the living. Sit on the sofa and reach the sink. There’s a lingering baked fish smell in the air and a yellow tinged smoke alarm. Landlady noticed my distraction, quickly saying:

 “It works.”

I trust her, although I’d be happier if it wasn’t functional. I told her how I liked the natural light coming in through the skylight. That it made the loft conversion, added a real something. There was a rickety old wooden single bed with a stained mattress. Landlady did her best to hide the soiled patch with her leg. I didn’t care, I just wanted to be free, out of that flat I shared with Jess. It was one punch too far. Even my gut churning love for her couldn’t save us this time. I can’t let her take my chance of escape away, not now. I’ve sacrificed too much already. I moved for her, ended up working in dead end temp jobs, with nothing to show for it but depression.

Thankfully, I can save my future. Landlady took pity on me; the place was mine. She even said how she enjoyed my sense of humour. She whispered; if she was 20 years younger, we’d have a lot of fun. Whatever that means. I knew exactly what it meant, but I won’t be honouring that fantasy. My god, she’s old enough to be my grandmother.

Of course, there were house rules, there always are. No smoking, I’ll ignore that, making use of the skylight for ventilation. The etiquette of bin day and whatnot. I was just happy to be free of Jess, all that behind me. A part of me wished she’d surprise me with tearful supplication, play our favourite song in the street on full blast or something. It's for the best that she doesn’t. Self-preservation and all that. 

As we left, Landlady kept reminding me how her son was a tenant on the 2^nd floor. So, he’d be able to keep an eye out for any trouble.

“He hears everything.” She told me, “Ev-er-y-th-in-g.”

I assured her she had nothing to worry about. A firm, friendly handshake, which to me, went on for too long. Her palm was clammy. We sealed the deal. She admired my surfboard. That’s not a euphemism. She said how she could imagine my twenty-four-year-old body in that shorty wetsuit, bigger crotch bulge in her head, I’m sure.

Being single now and at the age I am, out of bitter resentment and with my freedom from Jess, now a reality. Living at the top of the world. I’d go out to all the local clubs and bars, most that we went to when we were a couple.

Every night, the same.

The Cavern for some alternative power chords, Pitcher and Piano for a bit of bloody culture and Hole In The Wall to play some pool. Things were falling into place. The female bartenders could sense my vulnerability, one called me ‘smooth’, spoken with razor sharp sarcasm and a sympathetic chuckle for spilling my pint on myself. Being single now and at the age I am, she wanted to fuck me. The pool table would be the only realistic place for inebriated intercourse. I still can’t get her to agree. Her loss.

Anyway, after being kicked out of the bar.

Every night, the same.

I’d sneak into Timepiece, steal strangers left over drinks, smuggle away used stubby squidged cigarettes from ash trays. I’d rest my drunken forehead against the tiled toilet wall, sway and stare down at those blue urinal trough tablets, trying to dissolve them with my de-hydrated yellow, mustard smelling piss.

Every night, the same.

When I met Fleur, the first thing I noticed was her stretched earlobes with those white plugs the size of pound coins. She was punky. She hated me using the word ‘punky’. She didn’t like labels, but settled for ‘emo’. I knew something had changed in me. After a time, she felt comfortable enough with me to take her plugs out and encourage me to sniff her saggy cat anus looking lobes. They smelt like dusty parmesan, mixed with a throaty warmth, so shocking. It didn’t stop me from wanting her. It made us closer. Our relationship, if you can call it that; was, I guess, built on friendship. She started as a temp, soon after me. Both of us, not good enough to be employed on permanent contracts. We refused to cut our hair.

Fleur was confusing. She’d ask if we could watch DVD porn together. We never said a word the whole time. We sat and watched close up hardcore penetration, come dripping off delicately tanned smooth female chins, that meandering white smudge trail of spoilt foundation. Noises we didn’t dare comment on. I turned the volume down, not sure which would be worse; having sex with Fleur in silence or Landlady’s son thinking I was watching porn on my own. He hears everything. Her words repeated in my head.

Flickering flesh. Fleur the effortless tease. She’d let me stroke her feet with the back of my fingernails. The second I got above her boney ankles or moved in close enough to see naked reflected porn flesh in the whites of her eyes. She’d move from the sofa to the floor, leaning against a kitchen cabinet. Her hands resting on her knees.

Every night, the same.

Fleur scrunched her shoulders into her neck and went into herself with silence. Not taking her eyes off the restricted eighteen spectacle. She could do anything she wanted. I’d still buy her drinks every night, even if she kept my balls in a jar. I’d shuffle my thighs and fan my knees like butterfly wings to air my fiery bollocks. She knew what she was doing to me, and it worked. I’d conceal my boner with the remote control and think of stabbing boredom in my mind.

She’d leave four minutes before midnight, down the stairs and say the same thing as she walked out:

“With all these CDs, you could open a shop.”

Every night, the same.

Fleur was beautifully odd. As much as I’d offer, imposing my chivalry upon her, she never let me walk her home. Maybe she thought I’d try it on, go in for a peck goodnight, or ram my fingers down her jeans and rummage with pent-up alienation. Those months of frustration brimming through my fingertips. If we don’t sleep together, we stay friends. I don’t mind ruining it. We’re not that close, anyway. I wish we were. I know she knows that. She plays with it.

The front door would slam shut downstairs as she left. That one night, I opened the front window, a perfect view of the narrow street below. Parked cars on both sides. The terraced houses mirrored each other too, with Edwardian bay windows. Most of the houses were turned into flats, student accommodation being as close to the Uni as we are. Rooms ended with letters, I’m '27C'.

 Fleur skipped down the pavement, oblivious that I was watching her leave. She got into an Audi, opening the front passenger door. A man behind the wheel, wearing a baseball cap with sprawling black tattoo ink poking from his t-shirt collar, up his neck to his ear. She leaned over the gear stick, slid her hand up his thigh to his crotch. They kissed with slow tongues; both sniggering, their foreheads touching. His flat peak lifting. I felt lost again. That explained why she never let me walk her home. The car screeched off down the road, red brake lights flashing on and off into the dark distance. As if I could compete with an Audi. I wish I was a bad boy.

I slumped, pathetic and alone on the narrow sofa, the TV still on mute, images flashing of surgically enhanced tits, ones with that scratch scar underneath the areola. I warmed Fleur up with my loyalty, made her laugh with idioms, took the piss out of the upper classes, the ones with the hope. She let me feel enough of her to gamble on the win of intimacy between us. She was the one who suggested we watched porn. I hoped she was becoming mine, all the time we spent together. She was my treasured gift after Jess, a means to forget. My very own pint-sized skater girl distraction. I only ever wanted to know her, to share myself.

 Every night, the same.

It left me with blue balls, pain panging deep up into my stomach. A little ankle tickle and she’d disappear. I wanted to catch her out, confront her. Understand what we were doing. Maybe she’d break down, give it up, and we’d make love fueled by her guilt. I wanted to hear her say she never meant to hurt me, that she was sorry. Have her call me ‘babe’ through breathy lips. I wouldn’t mind hearing us come together, clenching and dripping with passion filled sweat. I should have turned the porn off. It was making my brain soft.

It reminded me of Jess’ pink lacy thong nestled sweetly in my bottom drawer. I kept them as a souvenir. It’s funny how soon you choose to remember. From the sofa to the room with the single bed, where I sleep alone. I stripped off all my clothes en route, leaving the porn playing on mute, my jeans kicked off over my ankles, my pants peeled off like a snake shedding skin in the doorway, my t-shirt rolled off over my head, only a beer jacket to keep me warm. I dug out those pink undies and slid them on. The lace cutting into my silky shaved balls. Naked and wearing my ex-girlfriend's underwear, not even washed, not once. I stood precariously on a white plastic office stool with my horny balls flapping softly. I liked how the lace thong cut between my bum cheeks.

Cheap Bourbon and a Hamlet miniature cigar. I must have been on my fourth. Standing on that stool, my head and naked shoulders poking up out of the roof skylight. I adjusted the thong cutting into my sack. I’ve got the best view from here. Twinkling township lights fade off into the hill covered darkness of the moors.

I thought of Fleur as her cinnamon shower gel smell passed through my nostrils, then just a woody cigar, washed down with a trickle of cheap metal tasting bourbon. I’m not even cold. One hand holding that cigar out the window, deliberately avoiding setting off the smoke alarm in my room. I rested my other hand on my naked fleshy hip and stroked my stomach. I was still hard, the lace cutting in. It made me exhale. God, was I horny. Jess at her drunk and wildest, glancing back over her oiled shoulder. Fleur with all her prick teasing. I need to feel something.

I dabbed my cigar in an empty soup can, filled almost to the brim with Marlboro light dog ends and a mound of smoldering cigar ash. I almost ducked back inside. So glad I didn’t. A yellow light snapped on in the house across the way from me. I couldn’t stop my intrigue like James Stewart. To my horny surprise, as if sent down by the dream warriors. A tanned, toned woman wearing black underwear, with her hair tied up in a ponytail, sauntered into the kitchen. I questioned myself, was I really seeing this? She filled a kettle from the tap and turned her shoulders, admiring her toned flat belly in the window's reflection, inserting her little finger into her bellybutton. She took an intake of breath, turned her back and lifted her rounded smooth bum up in both hands, examining herself in her reflection again. She ran her fingers along the material of her thong; it slid back into place in her edible bottom crack. I traced my finger, copying her movements along the thong I was wearing. She didn’t see me, thankfully. I had my eyes poking out of the roof like a periscope. I always make sure the lights are off in here when I smoke.

Every night, the same.

The mysterious woman didn’t know I was there. She stood with her arms crossed, foot tapping as she waited for the kettle to boil. I didn’t leave until that light turned to darkness. She didn‘t know I could see her, which I liked. If I wasn’t aroused enough before, I for damn sure was when I saw her standing there. Sometimes less is more. I didn’t need to see a nipple or her shaven pussy. I was throbbing; it was amazing. She filled a mug with boiling water; the steam fogging the window. She squeezed in some lemon and drizzled in a teardrop of honey from one of those squirt bottles.

 I leant out the window to follow her as she disappeared, out of sight, steadying my feet on the flimsy stool. Perfect olive skin arse. The light went out. That was that moment over. Why couldn’t she have needed to make Choux pastry, or lamb stew, anything more involved. It took the illumination of the kitchen light to grab my attention again. I was still leaning out of the skylight, trying to calm my nerves. One hand on my erection. There was only one way of achieving satisfaction and there was no one around but me. The girl came back; she grabbed for the honey bottle, looked up in my direction and winked.

The stool crumbled under my feet. I was on my back, looking up at the open skylight.

Did she really wink at me?

Maybe she knew I was there the whole time. She could have enjoyed being watched. If I looked as good as she did in a thong, I wouldn’t mind being ogled.

     I blame Fleur. She wanted to watch porn. I was on my hands and knees on the surface of my single bed; the duvet scrunched to one end. With thoughts of strangers naked through windows and the lace keeping me hard. I put my mouth on my pillow, pulled the thong to one side and took the only sex toy I shared with Jess, a mauve butt plug, and pushed it deep inside me.

Sometimes, it’s nice to be naughty. I think of her kisses on the common and the way we’d dance on the car roof. From sentimentalism to bending her over an Avebury stone. Perhaps it was sacrilege. We upset the Pagans or something. That could be why I felt cursed. Our lust turned to violence, but I needed to come.

Every night, the same.

I held my breath, so downstairs wouldn’t hear me pop. As I convulsed to finish, the top cover of the yellow stained smoke alarm dropped on a hinge. It wasn’t enough to interrupt my stroke. I could see the 9-volt battery, more wires than I expected. My hand got slower. Then I saw it, my naked reflection in a black domed camera lens, no bigger than a penny. I couldn’t stop myself from coming. A red light flashing on and off.

Landlady accepted my notice.

With immediate effect.

 Autumn in Georgetown

With the fun I experienced completing the first book. I guess you could say I've got the bug. The writing bug that is. I suppose that's why I've been relatively quiet in documentating what I've been doing. I'm never convinced what I write is of any benefit to anyone. I really haven't got that big an ego. It's more for me to be able to look back and see progression and improvement. 

"It's a process of continual growth." 

With the self-publication of the first novel 'Flagpole'. It still annoys me just how long that took to complete. Best part of four years. It probably didn't help that I was pursuing the 'traditional' route to publication. Having to wait for responses, trying to be patient. For me, it distracted my focus from actually just writing. I'd become consumed with waiting, putting my own fate in the hands of strangers with an inbox.

"I'm not going down like that!"

It's more about taking control and responsibility for what you create. I'm pretty proud of what I've managed to do so far and I'll keep going. It's up to the world to catchup. Even if it's a small audience. I kowtow to your time and appreciate you reading. I can say I enjoyed every element of this book. I've mentioned a number of times before that 'Flagpole' went from approximately 190K words to just above 100K. It is a long book. I had fun writing it in the first person but it leads to rabbit hole introspection. I think with this second. Third person has been even more fun and it's allowed me not to fall face down, rabbling. Of course, I'm not saying 'Flagpole' rambles but including Dylan's observations and obsessions may have been exhausting. I didn't experience that whilst reading it again but 'Autumn in Georgetown' feels more episodic and faster. It flows.

"What would you do if you were omnipotent?" 

"Probably kill myself!"

For 'Autumn in Georgetown' third person, allowed me to introduce more characters and tell their story. They started to come alive, they couldn't be ignored. I wanted both books to exist in the same 'world'. That's why there is that cross-over between the two. Namely, reoccuring characters like Dylan, Hazel and Lacey. But then the introduction of new ones too. You don't need to have read 'Flagpole' to enjoy 'Autumn in Georgetown'. Well, that's the hope anyway. 

    The story began as a song, titled the same. You can hear below if you wish. I wrote it a few years back on several scraps of paper. Those pieces of paper were then written up into 'nicer' pads. That nicer pad was filled, then they were transposed into a bigger 'nicer' pad and then if inspiration doth strike I'd put those nicer hand written words to music, add some strum strum chords, sing aloud, coughed and recorded in Reason, whatever iteration it was; probably 8. Think we're on 11 now. The result being my very own love letter song to Georgetown. 

*I've never claimed to be a good singer. It was just something I enjoyed.

Anyway, if you desire to stream that song via Amazon music or Spotify. Please do. I will get 0.04 pence everytime it's played. I'll be rubbing my hands together soon and writing full time at this rate. Notice how I didn't add a link there. See, proof my ego remains egg shaped.

I digress....I revisited the story again almost daily in my head. After hitting setup and going through the many steps of uploading via KDP with 'Flagpole'. I threw myself head first and balls deep into writing this, my second difficult book. Now, if you don't understand the reference. Without appearing condescending that's what critics always say of a bands second album. Just so we're all on the same page.

"I smell it, baby!"

Consistently committing daily to early mornings, two hours at a time. As many hours in the evenings. 'Autumn in Georgetown' took shape. Then came with the editing, the formatting. The many reads. The first front cover which was grey and ambiguous. I changed that up. Adding some text. Still didn't like it! Went with a matt front cover instead of the glossy. The glossy kind of made it look cheap. 'Flagpole' is still available in Glossy but still to me, looks vibrant. Possibly because of the colours of the flag. I can always change it up. That's another reason for self-publishing. I control the cover art. I can make use of someone else or I can truly do it myself. I love the independence of indie writing. It truly does set you free. 

"Power to the PEOPLE."

As the title suggests it is based in Georgetown, along with Virginia and other locations in and around DC. The book is based on September 11th 2001. Documentating Dylan's experiences of the day. Caught up in his own drama. 

I wrote it using American English. As above, I had to consciously change my spelling from; for example grey and gray and refer to trainers as sneakers and sidewalks for pavements. That was fun too. It should make sense by the end of the book. As it isn't, unlike 'Flagpole' written from an English perspective. Maybe I've said too much, but ah well.

All of the images shared and created as 'marketing' material are all owned by me. All I will say is...I was there on September 11th, in Virginia. 'Autumn in Georgetown' remains a work of fiction.

If you're wondering why then Autumn instead of 'Fall'. If any of the above considerations for writing the book, making use of American English were true. The title then is the biggest Alanis Morrissette single. That maybe true, but it's OK. You can stop your palpitations. 'Fall in Georgetown' doesn't quite have the same ring to it as 'Autumn in Georgetown'. Plus, I wrote it and I can do what I like. Oh! There goes my ego again!

Sharing some snip snips of the books contents:

As you can see, the chapters include mentions of The Exorcist. You can't go to Georgetown and not visit it. It plays a part in 'Autumn in Georgetown' and rightly so.

I hope you enjoy this book. If it raises questions, that's good too. 

 

Until next time...

Do Good Things!

November 2020:

It seems if you listen or even read any self help book or embrace a snippet of wisdom in the form of a Youtube video. Most, if not all of the guidance or call it advice, you could even consider them tips - the secrets of the gods, or put simply and to include a pun; The secret. Ways of living, practices published in bullet point, encapsulated in a magenta slogan, a two-line symbolic journery into metaphorical imagery. Could all these soapy words and phrases be a mere pseudo-science? Call me Ned Flanders because I don't believe in insurance.

 If you choose to watch the 2020 film 'The Secret: Dare to Dream' with Katie Holmes, penned and based on the book by Rhonda Byrne. Well, firstly I wouldn't actually bother. It's almost as tripe as my wildest writing dreams. Watch it, make up your own judgement, ot quickly tear it back down. It's a far cry from anything you might expect and it will not change your life or offer any insight into your own challenges. Use your time more wisely.

Anyway, as I was saying: these self-help books, and other media forms, all mention 'lists': 

"You gotta write shit down!" What is this mysterious and oh so powerful 'list'? I'm asking myself the same question. I've gone through the process, as we all have, of making note of aims and goals. That's all well and Johnny B. Goode, but with that list comes a responsibility. The call to arms, formulation of actual work and the gritty massage of your own creativity. I'm attempting to make a clear list and stick to it. I won't bore you with the intricacies of my own, other than to say and include: bullet pointed, I add parenthetically.

• Guriella style documentary of a chance meeting with Spike Lee in Brooklyn
• Write a 70's, trash style horror novel
• Make that horror novel into a self-produced micro film and post it to youtube, the motivation being that it's seen

June 2020:

27th February 2020:

It can be hard. It can be so hard. It's never too hard. There should never be an excuse. I do my best not to make any excuses. You know, if a blustery storm blows down your fence. It's a task. It's a chore. It's something that life throws at you. Albeit trivial, it's still an unwelcome distraction from what you might want to be focusing on. Your aim, as is mine.... is to create and write on a daily basis. Yeah. I like you, have a full time job. We each have our own aims, things we want to achieve. It's about prioritising our endeavours.

It was my aim not only to write on a daily basis but also to update this blog in order to effectively provide ongoing documentary of this process. I think, although I've managed to maintain the habit of writing the novel each and every day....notwithstanding storms and foiled boundaries etc. It almost became unrealistic to complete two at the same time. I suppose you make a choice. Either you sit and watch Vikings on Amazon or whatever series is available on Netflix. Don't get me wrong, there's always time for a bit of 'The Staircase' - you do need and deserve your downtime. You never know it may even inspire you along the way in terms of characters, delivery or whatever else you can gleam from acted prose. You might even consider reading the book and gather even more inspiration. Who knows?

Whether it's a blog that one person reads, an instagram account that four people interact with you on or any other social media. Know that it doesn't define you. Be thankful for those that encourage. Remember your endgame. Embrace why you feel the need to have to write everyday. It should be a love. It should be enjoyable. It was either Aristole or Augustine ( I forget who ) that said, when you do something you become it. If you write, you're a writer. I may have completely fluffed that attempt at a quote,  but who cares. You know what I mean and as I said - I can't even remember who said it. Obviously, a lot of effort has gone into fact checking this....

Whatever it is you want to do, don't berate yourself too much. It's not worth it. Just be happy knowing you're enjoying the process and creating something of your own.

I try to photograph my own process and goals in terms of word counts,drafts and notes I'm making.

It's a long journey, but my journey to a published novel will happen. Your aim will be achieved. Just implement your passion.

Until Next Time....

Do Good Things!

January 29th 2020:

On a day to day basis. I think about words. I think about the dictionary definition. I wrangle with the way it'll be heard. I wonder if it's even correct. If only for a second. I imagine its uses. Is that how I would say it? Is that the correct use of punctuation? What does that word even stir in me? What's the origin? What's the synonym? You can wrestle with a thesaurus, you actually can. For the good it'll do you. You may as well fold. It won't like you in any such literally way. Not one little idiliy bit. That book you considered more holy than thou. Look at it weeping. Look it at now.  Instead of worrying about sounding like this one or that one or the other one championed. I'd sound like yourself. After all, it's you writing this stuff down.

So, when I consider and look at my words. The words on a monitor. The words from my head. It's a satisfying feeling and an obsession all the same. My goal isn't to write as many words as I can. Far from the object of the task at hand. I'm merely reading from page one, not counting the lines. I indulge in my written creation and rhymes. Chapter one, edit the meaning. In fact, switched it around. I start from a sequence in the heart of the character. Notwithstanding, it introduces the setting. It's not a secret. It'll be defined. Which in itself becomes a character and therefore it must be introduced earlier. I'm embracing true meaning in the alluded dark message. Writing it seems, becomes more and more fun. I can see the page count increasing and the words doing the same. By going back over from the start of the page. Page 242 of (at the moment) 398. I'm not aiming or working to 400 or even a set total number of words. What appears to be naturally evolving. I suppose evolution is natural in itself. The way in which I read what I've written and realise it needs depth. It needs slightly more of me. My personality. You need to feel me in the page. I don't mean feel the character. I want  you to know that it's me that's written it. The only fear I then may have, is that... I'm trying too hard to be something profound or something I'm not.

All I can say is. It's taking some time. It's time I have to spare and it's time I wish to invest. It helps that I'm enjoying reading it for essentially the millionth time. I guess if you enjoy the story, it stays within you in all times. It's tangible in my mind and I want that on the page. As long as it takes is as long as it'll take. When I know it's right. I'll know. I'm not far off now. The page count isn't growing because the story isn't finished. It's finished. I'm adding in the life. That's what I mean when I say; I want you to feel me. I want to be gripped as the author. Being gripped in a way that you can't control the life and passion you place within the words. Editing this draft. Now the second, is breathing individuality into my writing. I wouldn't go so far as saying 'I've found my voice'. Sometimes, I have no clue what I'm saying, doing or pretending to be. Other days I'm awash with confidence, positivity and direction. It's the persistence I think that is key. It's really helped me focus and I.... at the moment ....can't stop.

It's making me feel proud and pride is not something I feel all the time.

Sometimes we're winners, sometimes we're at work.

Whatever the person you decide to play........ Play it with vigour. Get to know yourself.

Until Next time....

Do Good Things

November 13th 2019:

Well....I haven't finished!

I've finished the story, sure. That though, isn't the end.

In terms of words, I'm at 131,034 - this is already the second draft. Word count remains relatively insignificant to me personally. This keeps on increasing and decreasing, either are fine with me. Much of my time is being taken up with reading, editing and adding in everything that I feel necessary to move it forward.

I haven't been religious in the pursuit of updating this blog because well I'm trying to get the 'work' done. I'm not though referring to this as work. It's enjoyable but I don't  want to be one of those people who 'just talks' about things. Usually, I will admit myself when I say I'm going to do something. I do it. Which I've kept up with thus far in my life.

It's been one hell of a journey so far. I said from the beginning that I hoped to get it completed by September this year. That would then be a year and 'done'. I've dedicated so much time to this and you certainly need to focus on nothing but what you're writing. That in itself is difficult when work and other such distractions surround you. Like trying to complete IT certs, and changing jobs AGAIN. Commuting. Maintaining the enigma. Singing songs that no one will hear. Writing words that will never be read. I keep coming home with notepads. I fill them. One by one. I fill them with words. Words that make no real sense. Just a flood of subconscious.

I often times, consider not writing this or updating it. I no longer have an Instagram account. It was originally my choice. I then attempted to log in and seems it's been removed altogether due to copyright material. I'm not entirely sure what that relates to! All of the material was mine. So, seems odd. I may return one day. Not sure what I got from it to be perfectly honest, it became just another distraction and I myself could feel as if I was becoming ever more vacuous. There's only so much sun drenched perfection, scenes of fake happiness and pretension that I can digest. That's a very sweeping comment, but one I'll stick to for the time being. I'm not one for spying unless it involves voyeurism.

I'm excited to start another one, I make notes on that one too. Should come relatively easy. I have my characters. I have the tone I have the narrative. It's ready but like I keep saying. I can't or won't start that one until this is all done.

Not sure first person on this one - I'll see how it feels.

The only part of me that thought I was alive is the part I search for within you. It's the part that I now know is missing. In life, it seems my indecision has paved the way toward my future. A simplified passenger in all and everything. I continue to hunt. With it brings fear. A concern. What if I have everything that I once thought was real. Reveal a decision, so many would find a surprise. I can continue with hope in my heart. Will hope turn to fiction or will I be the star of my own biopic? The end only known if I choose the conclusion. Act on my impulse. I like the romance in the definitive decision. No one can misinterpret your intentions. You could leave a note with empty pages laced with intricate details of all your offerings, your misgivings and regrets. Then again, choose to disappear to a tree on a hill, decorated only in darkness. Illuminate the leafless branches with the full beams of your headlights. Lay out a record player. Perhaps power it off your car battery. Delicately remove the soundtrack you wish to dance the last experience to. Inform the authorities of your location. By the time they reach, the record will crackle in perpetuity. Never mind, it won't be taken seriously anyway and rightly so.

For each and every day I check. I keep looking. The day I left. You should have come running. You didn't. How unhealthy. I can't help but be completely jealous and I clearly, obviously and evidently have no right at all to be the one to feel it. If I spend too much time considering jealousy, it loses it's purpose. I lose my own. I can't go on like this. I won't.

Can I be saved by irrelevance. Should I be considered in the same breath as ruminative. I only lean with a heavy elbow, supporting a glass of liquor, chiming with melting ice cubes. That I think. I hope supports my creativity. My expulsion of tranquility. For that matter, any words that end abruptly with 'ity'. Shall I not learn to be horrified?

If I playfully imagine my finger upon this glass. It's no longer a glass. I'm closer to you. Albeit through the gin we shared. I can nestle in heavy, my mouth in your neck. With the warmth of my exhalation, you have no choice but to tilt your neck away through panic that we will devour each other. It's our waiting, our nuances that will cause this passion to conflagrate. You can avert your eyes all you wish. I can hold back my kiss. You know this has been inevitable. You know it's our time. With a beat, our foreheads rest upon each others and with the feeling of righteousness. That we owe this to ourselves. We owe it to each other. This moment is yours and mine. I lose myself in you.

I won't make excuses.

This one too, will write itself. Whether you appear within is self evident. This story is yours.

Until Next Time...

Do Good Things!