Rather nebulous, I'm afraid.

I hope you find it in the little things

I hope you find it in the little things.

(Serenity. Comfort. Happiness.)

I hope you find it in the comfortable drowsiness you wake up in. I hope you find it in your small but delicious breakfast of crispy croissants and Nutella for one. I hope you find it in the celestial smell that buries its way up your nose as you walk into a favourite haunt of yours, the dilapidated coffee shop at the corner.

Find it wrapped up, tied with a bow, next to your fireplace. Stay up reading it late into the afternoon. Search the splash of milk you drop into your tea for it. Take the warmness from the mug – it’s all for you.

I hope you find it out running, at dusk. I hope you find it working on your latest project that requires so much work but gives so much joy. I hope you find it sawing into your cello at 2am in the morning.

I hope you find it. You’ll find it in the small things, and you’ll work your way up.


And when he breathed out, slowly, everything came out with his breath. The startling brightness of the sun, the serenity and strength between the trees, the wind and the waves and the stillness of the desert and the liveliness of the jungle and the solar system and the grass and the moon and the Martian Earth and the stars and the nebulae and black holes and exploding gas and infinite universes and galaxies – not just ours, but everything – came out, and everything was felt. The tingling of the greatness and the wonder I found upon my skin.



As a teenager, I was porous – but it wasn’t oil bleeding out of my skin, it was words. Words, they stumbled out, choked out of me — clandestine-clever-climax-clockwork — forced, torn out of my own throat into the air, and I was left gulping, eyes bulbous like a desperate fish. I breathed, and they burned — pompous-pugnacious-perspicacious-petrified — every day, it left me panting and singed, desperate for air, non-combustible air. My mouth, it would pinch and pucker, filled to the brim with words, words, words – fill me up, oh, fill me up inside – and my fingers would itch and itch, craving to scratch out diligent-delectable-darkling-deranged on the closest surface. And they would tap, and tap, tap out syncopated rhythms that were words in disguise – they flowed out of me, I couldn’t stop them flowing –

(They filled me up, oh they filled me up inside – but I was always empty, too -)

So in a way I didn’t expect my death to be different. I was always going to go out with a pop, bang, diddly dang, because that was the kind of show-off that I was. I lay on the pavement, blood pouring out from every available surface – though it wasn’t really blood, was it, you know what it was — Adam-barnacle-cleavage-delirious-evasive-furuncle-garage-Hinduism-idiomatic-juvenile — and I bled, and bled, blood rushing out of my neck, temples, ears, toes, everywhere everywhere everywhere and then I bled no more.

Tell Me I’m Dangerous

I like to live on the edge. Wake me up at 5pm and tell me to go clubbing. I’ll paint my face with ethereal gold and dark plum and take a fair-haired stranger home.
I like to experience new perspectives. Hand me a cigarette and I’ll take cannabis. I’ll smoke until I think I’m Whitney Houston on my way to Mars.

Today. Today I look myself in the eye while knotting my tie and tell myself, I will be good today. Today I write until my tongue bleeds out and paint graphic depictions of deaths and study the varying speeds of different poisons take to kill you – then I straighten my tie, go downstairs and make small talk with a charming smile as I burn myself out inside.

I’m fascinated. The things I’m fascinated about, I grasp them by the neck and I suck their souls out of their clavicles and wreck myself over them until it’s the end of the day. Then I crawl back into bed and relax and pretend that this is what I’m ever like, always.

You tell me I’m obsessive. I tell you I’m just unstable. You tell me I’m dangerous. I agree. Though it was never the actions that counted; it was never the way I acted. I may or may not have done those things. My thoughts are dangerous – therefore I am.

Happy Counting an Arbitrary Unit of Time

Here we are, then.

Welcome to the birth of a new blog. It is the beginning (expansions, explosions, stars, nebulae). The beginning of an emotional wreckage, growth, and the progression into… I’m not really one for spewing out rubbish about self-improvement and all that, but… the best version of myself I can possibly be, really.

The best I can possibly be. How ambitious of me. (We’ve a long way to go, yet.)

Welcome, to the insights of a personality donned by me”The Ice Man”, mind of objective callousness, thoughts the very paragon of unhealthy romanticisation of pain and hurt and suffering (namely my own inconsequential and petty problems). Perhaps, if I continue in this dreadfully maudlin way of mine, you will be closer to me than anyone or anything in my life. If you are willing to be, that is. (I am doing the work of revealing myself. You are doing the work of being… not unpleasant. Which is more than I could ever ask for.)

It is the beginning (school, people, emptiness, delusions of happiness).

It’s meaningless, isn’t it – we have looped around the Sun once again, time has passed, we celebrate – but then, life is meaningless. We are meaningless. Everything has no meaning until we bestow one upon it. So, I suppose, why not. Let the humans live their happiness. Let them enjoy their world of structure and meaning and let them complete objectively meaningless things (as opposed to wasting away in bed, forever in an existential crisis – which is me, by the way).

Is this blog a New Year’s Resolution? Perhaps it would be, if I ever participated in such a thing. (As if we are not on a perpetual journey of development and improvement. As if the event possesses enough force to motivate me to begin and sustain new resolutions.) Today just seemed like a good day, if I’m honest. And a good day means me, sunken into the horrors of my own mind for long enough to write about it.

Well, you can see that I am pleasant enough. It’s obvious, isn’t it, that I do not possess the ability to make friendly conversation and talk to strangers. Because they ask me questions, and I have answers that are concerning at best and cynical at worst. Most of all, they are different. Unusual. Unusual enough to make people’s face contort into an awkward grimace and walk away. So of course, I can’t say them out loud.

(It’s also obvious that I overuse brackets. Perhaps it is just the comfortable intimacy of confiding that I adore. Or perhaps the subtlety of subtext, so subtle in speech and body language that people miss it. But it cannot be missed here. And I use it still.)

2015 was a…nother year. I lived. It was fun, sometimes.

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