Love

I know this is a topic which I have avoided writing about. I would hate to write a cliche, to compose a piece only for it to hit the fan, therefor I intend to replace the word 'love' with 'hurt'. Not because I'm pessimistic, or because I am hurt or broken, but as I lay in bed this morning, turning ideas over in my head, I realised that such a theory would work. Both Love and Hurt are strong feels which are so opposite, like a line running around the globe, it can be perceived as the furthest apart and then the closest together.

I never realised how much i could hurt someone. I would hurt to be with them, I would hurt just so I could spend time with them. It hurt at first sight. I could feel this feeling inside, I knew at once that it was hurt.

Not long after meeting this person, they said that they too hurt, they too felt the same way, and that we should be together. We soon found that anything we did to each other would be a method to express our hurt. I found that they would feel my hurt, we would talk about it. We would conclude that we had never felt so much hurt before.

At some point in time we hurt so much we just had to move in together. This the right thing to do, however we soon found that the little things they did, that we used to say we hurt for, we now could not stand. We found that our hurt for each other that had brought us together was no longer there. We found that the other was not satisfying. We did not like their habits, things were no longer working between us.

We found what hurt actually was, was lust. The realisation pained us.

It was not until some time after I realised that all the way through, our love just hurt. So why do we put ourselves through it? Are we just masochistic? Or is what we are told when our first pet dies actually true? Is it really better to have loved then lost, then never to have loved at all? Is it better? I expect not, however I know that this will not be the last time I fall into the bordeaux tinted emotion which is the colour of passion, emotion, pain and happiness, which best describes both Love and Hurt.

Going to Town

Today I ventured out into town. What wonders are held by 'town'? Shopping, eating out, people to see, places to visit. Wonderful. Town is the place to be and be seen. This is especially the case in the evenings, people dress up to go out. Now, I'm sure I'm not alone with this thinking, but i've noticed that people put considerable effort into their appearance when going out. They drape themselves in layers of clothing, yet still managing to show off more flesh then cotton. Make-up, worn by both men and women looks like it has been applied whilst driving over a cobbled street and jewelry seems to have be selected via the smash and grab approach. Hours of time spent in preparation and still they still manage to archive the look the creepy guy in the office pulls off every dress-down friday. Following this, they drink, combine vomit and sloshed drink to their 'look' before pissing by the roadside on the city ring road.

Town is not only the place to be during the nights. The morning is where it all kicks off (providing the Town sleeps at all). Traffic into the Town moves slowly. To the deaf community, it appears to be a relaxed migration as the automotive boxes progress towards the centre. Town is not dissimilar to a famous blue police box; far to much goes into Town then can reasonably fit in. The explanation is that there is normally as much Town below ground as there is above. Cars stacked in waiting, far below, along with the OCD metro trains which insist on traveling the same routes, all day, every day. Well unless of course the tube is on strike. Now, I'm not one to focus on the small details, but the personification which empowers the tube is immense, it can bring the grand city of London to a halt.

During the middle of the day, on the surface, the 'buzz' really comes alive. As if by clockwork or the changing of the guards, the office shuts down. The photocopier is allowed to print to its hearts content, repeatedly rolling off copies of the secretaries arse. Occasionally, the fax machine will join in, sending a mail drop to all the office's customers. During this lunch break, a miracles increase in sales occurs from foreign markets, especially form Italy. Yet again the bare faced cheek sold and the stocks are high.

Food becomes the centre of interest. Coffee houses are flushed with steam, hair styles return to their 80's frizz. Fish hardly has the time to leave the water, let alone has time to be cooked, so parceled up in seaweed, it is delivered the gut. Salad is fresh and local. Yes local. From the countryside. What do the residence of the countryside consume? Well, Iceberg lettuce from the Netherlands and Spanish tomatoes. Local produce in the countryside is only local to Earth. Anyway, Town gets fresh, local salad. An hour passes. Food and coffee create a real mix, energy is ready to be released, hammered into the keyboards and touch pads throughout the afternoon. The inevitable indigestion sets in for several individuals so powdery peppermint tablets are swallowed and the pain is removed.

Calls are made, deals are won and lost, paper is torn, shredded, scrunched and sculptured. Alliances are made and broken, history is written, coffee is spilt and then it all comes to an end.

The migration away from the city commences. Cars pull out of the deep hovels, trains pull away from the platform. Buses are missed and caught. A boat may take away a days cargo, planes leave the airport and people treck back to their small square feet which they call home.

Now I'm standing in the city, looking at the cars as they move on out. Red rear lamps shine back at me. Like eyes, they portray an evil knowing within them. "We will be back, to pump your Town with pollution, to knock down a few more pedestrians. We will be back." They slink away, into the the darkness. thousands of evil, red, slanted, frowning eyes stare back, unblinking. Goodbye Town.

Childhood

This Afternoon, I have been thinking about childhood. The best time of our lives we are told. The time of our lives where we can do what we want, live freely without boundaries, without being oppressed by our views which have been molded to our social norms that we have as adults. Freedom to get muddy, play in ditches and have the innocence to believe that the condoms on the playing field are nothing more then the shredded skin from a reptile. The only time in our life where we can build anywhere, without plans and permissions, without the threat of health and safety closing our dens down. Time to be inspired, by films, peers and books, to eat worms to see if they really are slimy yet satisfying. Freedom. That is what it is to be a child.

However. Things are not as it all seems. Childhood is not at all about freedom. Its 18 years of punishment and imprisonment, sentenced at birth all because we have been born.

When I think back to being a child, I do not remember the times of utter bliss. If I were to describe it in one word, I would summaries it as 'fear'. Fear. Maybe I was just a child who seemed to worry a lot, but I often felt scared. Danger seems to come from all sides when your a child. From when you close your eyes, there always seems to be a nightmare about to appear. I haven't had a nightmare since I came of age, so to speak, but I remember as a child, having some of the most scary dreams, dreams where I would wake up and be unable to make an audible scream. Then, during the day, the fear of being lost or left behind is so great. Standing on the cold floor of a supermarket, looking out at the packets of crisps, mesmerized by the purple pickled onion Monster Munch bags. When you have absorbed all there is to take in, you find that your mother has wondered off. Panic. I know that almost every person who reads this will remember this happening to them. The fear that grips you. You see now that I am not mad with these assumptions of childhood experiences.

There then comes a point where its time to go to school. Schools are horrible places. Locked up, unable to do anything without permission. Freewill has gone. This is why the kids piss on the floor. Waiting for the teacher to finnish their conversations with the assistant, coffee from the brown glass mugs, waiting, patiently, with their hands held high. 'can I go to the toilet please Mrs Smith?' (for all teacher have to have a long drawn out formality with their names - we do away with that at secondary school), If your lucky, they will see your desperation and let you go, otherwise they will question you as to why you did not use those fine facilities at break time. Shame creeps over you, urine creeps down your leg. She looks at you, in disgust. As if she has never seen this before. Out comes the cloth, and the bin bag of spare clothing. Every kid in the class will have worn the misshapen garment which you are now presented with. Finally, at the end of the day, the ordeal just about over, your mother has to come in to collect the steaming bag of clothes, which you had tried to forget earlier.

School discipline is has always been strange. Built purely on the ground to give as much humiliation to the child as possible, without actually breaking any laws. Some at my primary school was getting the child to stand up on a chair for the rest of the lesson, so everyone could watch the poor girl weep. Another was to stand outside the staff room door. Since the school cat was rehoused in my early years at school, the frustrated staff had nothing to kick, but like little stress balls, the children outside the staff room were little vessels to take the abuse staff would pour into them. How blissful is childhood!

Outside of school, there were holidays. If you could run a lightbulb of each child's pent up disappointment, we could light up London. The first term ends and Christmas holidays come around. The fictional Santa Clause that would stock up all year just so he could deposit something under your tree or on the living room carpet. We were good boys and girls, however quite how goodness was rated I was not to sure, for the naughty kid at school always seemed to get the best toys. I always thought that it was very clever how Santa was able to provide toys that were representative of the parents income. One Christmas which stands out in my memory was wanting an electric car. They were all the rage. I came downstairs, after a sleepless night and there was a tractor, wrapped in christmas paper. After the long wait for the parents, and the parents parents, to come down stairs, washed, shaved and flossed, present opening could commence. And there, my hearts desire had provided a ride on tractor, with grand plastic blow molded wheels, a red body and ... pedals. Yes pedals. And of course, with the freedom of childhood I was only able to use it on the grass in the garden. We've all ridden on grass on bikes, and its not easy. Now imagine doing it with fat wheels. The friction was too much for my little legs to take.

Now, Santa Clause is covered. What about the other fabulous little creatures which our double standard parents have created. The Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy. Oh what fantastic creations. I was told never to lie, 'we don't have lies in this house, nor will I tell you a lie. You must be truthful and honest' my mother would say. Now, double standards. This was a way for my parents to find out everything. They lied to me, they lied to each other, they probably lied to the tax man (I jest of course). So we've established that most of the things we believe in are fictional creations. We find out in adolescence that much of this is not true. I wonder then what else we find out when we get older. What illusions we are currently under. The Tooth Fairy also seemed to discriminate. I remember getting 50p per tooth when the twins at school boasted about the £5 they would get. The Easter Bunny - well, he was not all that important in my life. I knew it was my dad providing the Cadbury eggs.

Summer holidays was the big one. 6 weeks of complete and utter... boredom. I will save you the drone of 6 weeks of non stop waiting around on the sofa with brief interludes of going to the park and den building, water fights and the laborious clean up afterwards - which we were, of course, told to do.

So yes, the freedom of childhood. I really do hope that reincarnation does not occur. I've been a child once. Id rather not do it again.

Beginnings

And on this day, this blog was formed.

Today started like any other day of late. Awoken by my own desire to wake, around 9 am. The outlook was dull. Dull clouds, protecting the world like a teacher over her pupils; saving us from the horrors of the outside world, yet fully capable of throwing over us a predicament which we would rather not be in, yet we have no control over it either way. Hopefully you won't have analyzed me already, as someone who thoroughly did not enjoy school. School was mediocre, like British weather. Unbearable for the majority of it, but with sunny spells mid afternoon. Today is not a school day. I have finished school days. As for the weather; it hasn't rained yet either. Things should be looking up.

I sat in bed, read a book until my back hurt under the strain of holding a stress position for so many chapters and then decided to see what was available to nourish a rather empty belly. Again, no thrills. Beans on toast. Ill leave out the recipe to add to the risk factor and build the excitement. However, I was feeling a little bit racy and indulged in a sneeze of pepper.

Having consumed my fill, I decided I really should tame a beast, one which even the boldest of hair dresses would cower at. Against hot irons and a spiked brush I tamed the hair to a modest feature upon my head. Dressed and ready to depart, I left the house via the back door and walked the slope to town.

Going to town is quite the anticlimax, the thrills and mystery that 'town' provides is rather quickly smothered by the likes of Savers, Superdrugs, Tescos, Thorntons and your left feeling rather disheartened. After a a warm, syrupy Vanilla Iced Frappe I question myself as to the hope this island has for the future and I welcome the change - anything is better then this.

Back up the hill to one of my residences, three boys pass me on their bikes. Hands flung wide, the drone of a plane engine as they imitate taking to the skies. Another kid, sat drinking a milkshake the cafe 'Throthys' (yes, the name does make you believe that someone has most likely yaked up a good hunk of phlegm and deposited it in your drink) shouts at them 'Gay Boys!' (which I imagine is capitalized for this child did seem to be under the impression that this was the noun given to represent the thee youths). It was at this comment, one not directed at me - for a change - but it got to me. This sort of eternal doubt where no matter how much I big-myself-up so to speak, that the whole of homosexuality is wrong.

Needless to say, I returned home and with this thought, very current in my mind, I decided to share it. Where shall I share it? I though to myself. In a blog, replied my internal dialogue. So here it is. The makings of this blog have started.

It is here, I give to you the ending. This is the end of my first Blog.