What ever way you write it…

…the adjective is never exact.

Except maybe in Japan.

I keep wondering when I’m going to die. Okay, bit morbid. Apologies. I just needed to throw that out there though.

I have the most ridiculous perspective on it too. I don’t know. Maybe it’s not. But each time the thought crosses my mind I think about all the things after me that I’m going to miss out on… then I reassure myself by telling myself “well you’re not missing anything once you’re dead dumb ass”.

I keep getting distracted by the thought of nothing. Its horrendous. I mean, actually kicking the proverbial bucket isn’t really something that scares me… unless it’s purely awful circumstances. Like you’re in the shower, and the ceiling caves in. So the 82 year old man in his Y fronts and socks in the flat upstairs, and his electric shaver, come hurtling through the ceiling; electrocuting you both and you’re found naked next to him… and somehow his had ended up somewhere it shouldn’t be, and you’re both looking like you’ve been killed by Sadako during some dodgy sex act. No thanks. Nothing though. It’s not possible to perceive the concept. People who don’t dream just go to sleep, and wake up. Theres nothing in between. I know. Alex tells me…. so that’s like 7 hours every day where nothing happens for him. But he has no idea nothing is happening. You know… we use that work too freely.

“Hey what you up to man?”

“Oh nothing.”

You fucking liar. You’re up to loads of things. You’re aware of so much right now. That nothing doesn’t even come close.

See… if there were still cogs turning… some sort of currant flowing and a lightbulb or two on… you could live in some sort of dosey dream state. Sounds decent. I’d take that! Any reality is a reality if someone truly believes it’s their reality…. yeah I know I said reality too many times. It annoyed me too! But in truth, if your mind is incapable of perceiving what is actually around you as the majority of others believe it is, then you have a different reality. That’s all I meant. Anyway… this nothing, there’s just no way to conceive of such a thing. It freaks me out. A lot. More than the idea of zombies or planes falling out of the sky or being randomly sucked through the atmosphere and into space with enough oxygen and warmth to last for a few hours… so you know its gonna happen, you’re gonna suffocate, and its gonna be real shit when you do… or you just take your helmet off and get it over and done with. Yep. Too far with the scenario again.

Moving away from nothing… to something.

I keep having to rein it in. Focus heavily on the things around me. It doesn’t always happen naturally. Focus, so that I remember to enjoy the beauty, and try to prevent the nihilism poisoning. It can be difficult.

(You can see more of my work here or here, or purchase on Etsy

One thing that has been helping me is painting again. I haven’t painted for years. And I painted a galaxy painting the other day using acrylics… the dark and the light, the focus and the feeling of accomplishment. It’s a winner. It’s cathartic. Then I found some luminous pigment online. It only lasts a few hours… but I figure I’ll try that in some paintings. It’ll live and die and leave behind something still beautiful, and dark.

I don’t have an adjective to sum this all up.

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In All Honesty

White Circle OriginalI feel the winds of change. The type of wind that carries a fine mist. So, you know you’re going to get wet but because you can’t immediately see it, so you go out without a hat on anyway, and royally fuck up your hair. It’s the type of wind that looks like it’s probably not too bad. The seagulls can still fly. I’ll be fine right, just put a coat on and don’t wear heels right? Wrong Vera, it’s not. It’s actually the type of wind that will remove your feet from under you and abruptly force your face to become one with the concrete without any introduction. It will take your umbrella and turn that, along with your face, and your spleen inside out. Good luck out there.

But you’re only popping out for milk so it’s okay.


I can’t concentrate. I mean, I really can’t. Something isn’t right. I feel it all the time lately. It just won’t leave me. There’s a howl through the letter box, it’s out there. I feel unbothered. Unmotivated. Unchanged emotionally by anything. Is it me? Is it something I’m suppressing? Am I lying to myself altogether? More importantly what do I do about this?


I don’t have dreams anymore. I mean, I have dreams, like I sleep and dream about shit. Not those kind of dreams. I still have a super vivid fragmented surreal night time life time. I mean dreams about my future. Like “muuuuuum, when I grow up I wanna be a mermaid”. I kinda feel like I have to just accept it and let life unfold. But something is going to happen… surely. I can feel it. Within me I mean. I feel like I’ve been waiting for something to fall into place. But it hasn’t, and I don’t even know what it is. I don’t know. I don’t like it.

Does everyone pretend to just be okay? I mean coasting along like a petal in a woodland stream, but actually you’re not sure if you’re just a half-submerged, algae covered shopping trolley that’s been collecting carrier bags and fish carcass’s in the River Crouch for the last seven years. Is that normal?

I’m a little worried about some kind of combustion… I can easily fill with emotions, but I am very very good at catharsis and rationalising my own thought processes. I never really argue about anything. I guess you could say I am short tempered to a degree, isn’t everyone, but so few people have ever seen me lose my shit. I just don’t do it. Except for this one time when I was on the bus with Sam after work and some dude behind me was breathing too loud and had a little click in the back of his throat. Oh mate. That was a real bad time. But honestly, I feel like I need to have a fight or something! I don’t actually want to. I mean, I bruise like a peach and I would lose immediately. Seriously, I don’t know what this is… Or maybe I do and I just haven’t asked myself enough questions yet. How long until I explode? People always give you that bullshit about changing your life and making yourself happy. Well give me your fucking credit card then Susan and I will. I’m not a lazy lifer. I don’t ask for shit. To be honest with you, I am incredibly frustrated when I am not in charge of my own shit. I don’t like it. I have always worked to get what I have or what I want, and I always try to be a good person and focus on self-improvement. I hate stagnating. So that wasn’t a cue to receive comments about “well only you can change that”… and change fucking what now? Tell me.

And no, it’s not a “grass is greener” scenario… because remember, I am seconds away from having really shit hair and kissing concrete right now… There is no grass. I don’t pine over what others have. There’s an actual person behind every Facebook account and to be completely honest, “stuff” doesn’t make me happy. Well, outside of pencils, comfy socks, hoodies and a few other things, like a nice bit of hand pressed paper… and hair. I don’t think I’d be very happy if I was bald. But those things aside… It’s memories. Being able to laugh, genuinely and without guise.

I feel like I’m hurting myself. Emotionally. But how? How I ask you, I mean me…. I’m asking myself. See… all the rest of this shit here, everything else I’ve written is fine… but this one little bit. Not so much.

I constantly feel like I need to be alone, and when I am, I feel like I can’t just be. I’m like “Oh yeah, I prefer my own company” until I am alone for more than ten minutes and then I’m all “Send help”. So what is this then?


I’m tragically underdressed for the storm outside, no utility belt, and I don’t have compass. I need to get somewhere, don’t know where. Going by what I’ve said here… Somewhere where there are other people but we just leave each other the fuck alone mostly, and it’s quiet.

I’ll let you know what it tastes like.

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Response | Bateman

Use a line from a film as inspiration for a short piece of writing.
American Psycho (2000)

Patrick Bateman:

“I have all the characteristics of a human being: blood, flesh, skin, hair; but not a single, clear, identifiable emotion, except for greed and disgust. Something horrible is happening inside of me and I don’t know why.”

With those words firmly etched in my mind, I opened my eyes to an incredible light. The sound of the rapidly halting tyres was like the bellowing roar of a thousand people. I had played it through a hundred times. But that fucking tepid heat! How irritating, it made my skin crawl. I couldn’t be seen to be flustered; to the contrary I was quite the opposite! Something as pathetic as weather having that kind of control, it’s nauseating. The light grew larger as it neared, and I could see nothing but this. In the spotlight, as planned. My performance was about to begin.

Why was I doing it? Because it was satisfying. To see if I could. To affirm dominance. Because of those vile, cretinous peasants undeservedly expressing their self-admiration so publically. Money. Glory. Respect.

They are NOT better than me!

I had been waiting there, past Tippin Farm Vineyards and just before Broadmayne and Weir, for fifty seven minutes and twenty seven seconds at this point. Thirty two minutes longer than I should have been. I mean what had he been doing? How can people be so fucking disorganised? The heat was a matador. I was a bull. The muscles along my neck and shoulders tightened. Head tilted, and eyes up, my motionless face would have been all he saw at that very moment. So close. The anti-locking brake system was pounding beneath the custom alloys, louder and closer, and those expensive sports callipers Mr Peterson, those wonderful, lavish, expensive callipers Mr Peterson, well… it looks like they might just save your life now doesn’t it. I stepped to the left. The Aston stopped two, maybe three inches before the verge of the abrupt incline.

I pigeon toed the skid marks. Slow enough to avoid debris touching my Zegna. I was a god. My reflection; triumphant, confident… Powerful!

Five, I ran my finger along the side of the Aston. That regal blue, pristine paintwork felt like silk.

Four, I exhaled contempt. He knew now.

Three, the fingers of my left hand wrapped one by one around the handle of the nearside door.

Two, I filled my lungs with spite. The muzzle tilted and poised.

One, Tap… Tap… Tap.

The electronic whir of the window winding down was heard over the ticking of the cooling engine. His face was a vision. The fright it displayed and the whites of his eyes were compelling. Appeased and composed with my lips pursed to say… but Mr Peterson interrupted. That self-indulgent, self-gratifying, abortion spoke before me. His face contorted as he grit his forty grand teeth. “Boy, you better have one hell of a damn good reason why you…” The words hurtled out of his mouth along with the puss he sprayed onto the custom leather. It was pure abuse of perfection. He was spitting like a rabid dog. The valet will remove his scum. He paused when he caught sight of my Smith and Western. Only a glimpse, but a glimpse enough. Then I saw it. “Well aren’t you pathetic” I said. I hadn’t so much as blinked since we had been facing each other. He recoiled and returned trepid. Checkmate. My intrepidity gained the advantage. It was time to present the situation for what it was. The heat was now intense.

This is how I began:

“Mr Peterson, you are going to die, and to some degree, it’s your decision how and when. Right now…” I said, not quite breaking a smile “…is a good opportunity for you to consider it. In this space, this space between you and I…” I exhaled, inhaled, and moved the muzzle through the space. “…there is nothing you can use to defend yourself if you so choose to try. Now, here’s the thing. I will be taking this car. This is not a question, you do not have to answer, or speak. God forgive me if you speak, if you interrupt me again.” I paused, recomposed and exhaled. “Mr Peterson, you will die. And you will most likely die of gout, or obesity, or of liver failure.”

Mr Peterson’s gaze was intense and fixated. He was frozen. It was outstanding. I continued.

“This is what is going to happen. You are going to get out of the vehicle. You’re going to turn around, and walk down that hill. If in any way you resist or attempt to fight me, you will lose and you will die. And if you look back, I will shoot you in the face.”

The heat had began to displace my composure at that point. Pearls of sweat cascaded down my face like mountain geese leaving the nest for the first time. I tried to ignore it, but that mother fucker had the heated fans on. I lost my cool for a moment “And why the fuck have you got the fans on? Are you deranged?” There was no movement from Mr Peterson. Not a fraction. And after an intensely long three seconds he smiled, cocked his head and said “Hell is hot Boy.”

Just a few seconds, that’s all it took for him to make a decision. Mr Peterson was going to die. I saw his thumb twitch, once, twice. The light was reflecting off of his platinum cufflinks. Three… Mr Peterson had made a correct assumption. My vision was still slightly distorted from the lights and he used this to gain the advantage. He positioned his wrist so that the light beamed directly into the back of my eye, and as it entered he thrust his hand through mine, gripping the chamber and positioning his thumb so that the trigger could not be pulled. I remained static. It would be another four or five seconds before I could regain my vision. My move.

“Do you think that will save you Mr Peterson?” I whispered, not attempting to look at him. I had already made an assessment. I could feel the sweat from his hand on mine. It was foul. “what do you think will happen?” I did not want an answer, I already knew what would happen. He would try to disarm me and he would die.

“Mr Peterson” I addressed him. “You have chosen haven’t you.” Despite my tone, I was not doing this to satisfy a murderous tendency. I wanted to take the Aston. I wanted to watch him feel small. I wanted him to feel inadequate next time I walk in on him sipping his old fashioned and gloating. I wanted him to stop the sickeningly narcissistic public displays of one upmanship. My suite was pristine. I didn’t want a blood sodden suit.

I told him it was futile, and he, inutile. His hand was quivering like a child’s. Some kind of man he was. Despicable. I offered him a further twenty seconds. Twenty, nothing; nineteen, nothing; eighteen, nothing; seventeen through 9, he glared, attempting to remain composed; eight, the thumb twitched again. I pre-empted a move; seven, he drew a breath; six, nothing; five, nothing; four, he began to exhale; three, he continued; two… his body convulsed and his arm drew back as much as he could force it to. My body jolted towards the open window but only so much as to alter my position. I was strong, much stronger that he. My physique was glorious and powerful in comparison. My left hand was pressed against the handle still.

Stupid little man. He began to wriggle like a fly caught in a spider’s web. There was no logic to this shambolic attempt at saving himself. This man doesn’t deserve to live. And I will have his car. He reached with his right and tore a button from my cuff. “Scratching like a cat MR PETERSON!” I spat through my teeth with furious resentment. The fear in his eyes sickened me. So, I looked him in the eye “I’ve had enough” I said, “you are a joke Mr Peterson.” He said nothing.

With my left hand firmly poised on the door handle I pulled back my right hand, bending Mr Peterson’s wrist. I pushed my arm forward with full force to release his grip. As my torso shunted forward, his eyes grew bigger, I felt my thighs strengthen, and then…

Even his blood was vile. That creature hunched before me. His blood was running down my wrist and soaking into the fabric of my suit. My palm was still resting on the base of the gun as it hung out of his skull. His limp hand flailed downwards like a dead eel. He was grotesque. I hadn’t even given a thought to how it had happened. I watched the stream of blood run from that obnoxious face and it was exhilarating. I pushed with the base of my palm. The sound was satisfying.

And how did I feel? Remorseful, guilty, upset, sacred? No… Nothing, I felt nothing.

How do you feel now?

How do I feel now?… I feel nothing.

I closed my eyes for a moment. There was a bellowing roar of a thousand people that sounded like rapidly halting tyres… and I opened my eyes to an incredible light.

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A slice of a dream

I felt like I was smiling, I could feel eyes on me, but there were either so many people to single out, or no one at all. The kind of contradiction that made it apparent that I was submerged within my subconscious. I could see books, whites, yellows, blues and browns through and in between figures. A crowded void, a contradictory space, full of movement without form and only allowing partial vision to its contours.

There was a note on the wall, a wooden wall, pinned roughly, on a discoloured piece of slightly crumpled paper with a tear in the corner. It had drawn on thin lines and in bold square black marker someone had wrote “When I look at you and I see you looking at me… its just beautiful”

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Nothing makes it begin and nothing makes it end. But there has been a lull almost as perfect as an absence twice of late.

At 00:11 on Thursday morning, seconds before I was about to be blanketed by my subconscious; I heard, what sounded like the echo of a firearm through the thick nocturnal air. Suddenly began the percussion, getting louder as the echo subsided. Crushed again was my throat. Dread pierced my chest with its splintered needles. My eyes a haze, and my vision remained unchanged regardless of whether they were sheathed by my eyelids or not.

I am no longer holding the glass of water. I have become it.

The nightmares returned three nights ago. The cold sweats four. Five days of salty cheeks and impeccable façade. The exhaustion will set in before long. I ate like a starving sow at a picnic at the start of the week. I experience a scantily appetite now.

I am dispositional.

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Motionless movements

Today I have felt like an entity absolutely void of life, that moves without purpose from one place to the next. Some days I live in my head and not in my person. And tonight, I pray for my sleep to be undisturbed, still and without tension. Exhausted by movements that I haven’t considered or made. Thunder so loud and outrageous, silently displays it’s rage. But no body sees this epic display. It is fury and fear are contained in a damp and ageing, muffled cage. Maybe you’ll feel it if you press on my skin. Though these layers of face and facade are thick and many. I wonder how long it can beat for at this rate. It’s rythem inspires negative, worrisome pontifications. The strings in my limbs are taut and uncomfortable and I am dispositional.

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The Bear

Sweet sweet sorrow, why do you let me cry. It is not the fine I seem to hear it is the rain. I am the bear who rocks in his cage, others enter and leave again. Exhausted by his own existence, every day the bear will claw, the bear will call, the bear will rock, the bear will fall. But he is the only one in his cage. Every dawn the bird will enter, the bird will sing “oh why don’t you fit through the bars as I did. I did. I did.”…. “Oh sweet bird but why wouldn’t you try to sing more quietly. For you do not need to try, your wings have much life in them yet, your eyes still see into the future”. And yet all that would keep me content for a while… “why wont you land and tweet for a while. But I beg you for quiet, your preaching damns me. Your big words do not make up for your little movements. Wait with me a while and we can build a Kite”…. I did I did I did I did I did I did….. The bird would stop by the paw of the bear. “WHY?” and why with a tilted head he would say, “I’ve no need and no hands, and I could fly away”… “Oh bird but please I do not ask for your wings or trees, just some time, some feathers and leaves. Just a seed!” Because when the wind changed from the bars he’d be free. But each day before an hour was done the bird would fly on, back through the bars, no more words that was it, he was gone. 

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