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.


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.

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