He pages 16-20

The snippet of conversation he had shared previously with her that day had left him feeling uninspired, he almost concluded that he should no longer reply to her, a good morning and a good night left at their respective times to let her know he was alright and still thought of her, but little more than that, he knew he couldn't do this no matter how hard he tried. Though the conversation on the surface appeared full of cheer and normality something about it's presentation, the tone he read it in, the over all feel and aspect of every word had numbed him, it had been a cold conversation, emotionally stunted at a deeper level, that end he had seen coming was looming nearer with every day that passed, and the under-current of frustration seemed to grip each tiring word as if she eagerly awaited each silence which he now dreaded, he didn't have the will to indulge in conversation with her yet, it hurt too much to try and seem as if things felt normal to him at present, though he felt guilty for not replying, he often did, he would wait in a near depressed state for hours, breaking with every second, slowly letting the melancholy of this separation of interest build up within him, and then when she answered, he would settle, but his desire to answer her would dissipate, it was an hours old conversation as they so often were, and it sickened him to see questions from earlier answered late, asking what the other was having for breakfast to be told what they considered for dinner, asking about plans  only to find out there were none simply by seeing the answer hours later, it wasn't the denial of plans, it was the presentation of their lacking which confirmed the absence of excitement to him, there was no rush to speak any more, no eager expectancy or waiting on the others words, it was just the waiting which seemed intact, in-fact the waits had grown in length, it was the opposite progression to that which he had hoped for and their seemed to be little he could do to entice her and incite some reprieve from the fast accumulating feeling of non-reciprocated love, it wasn't that he believed she didn't love him, neither did he think she didn't like him, it was a simple case of “has to be's” which was plaguing any hope of seeing her smiles in the reality which at every moment he was forcefully sucked back into.

It was barely ten o'clock, he had checked the time after sending her a message about the night which had already drew in on his existence, often he forgot of time differences and occasionally, as in times like this it bothered him slightly, he was talking of night skies, cold and darkness to someone still within the less peaceful yet more cheerful restraints of day and it had seemed wrong to him, if he could call it that.
Not long before, he had been stood in his kitchen making coffee, all lights in the house save for a small lamp by the side of the microwave were turned off, and the dog was sleepily laid beside the 1st of his two front doors, figuring that the dog was tired already he had approached him and rested the coffee on the banister at the base of his stairs by the door, “come on then you, wanna go out for sec before bed” as with all questions which he aimed towards the dog it was purely rhetorical, he took the eager rising from potential slumber as a yes, and as he walked to grip the handle the dog was already sticking his nose into the gap at the edge of the door, eager to sniff the air, brace the cold, and empty his bowels before sleep finally claimed what little energy reserves remained within the small, fluffy, elongated canine.
Upon turning the key as he pulled back on the handle he felt that vacuum of air give way and like a gust bring forth the still winter air to freeze his skin beneath the wool of his hoodie, it was glorious.
He stood half-entranced by the cold which had bitterly passed over him and begun to flood the hallway at his rear, stood on the white plastic step of his doorway, staring out into a night he had been longing to see throughout most of the year, summer had stolen his beloved freshness in the air from him, and now it looked as though it would soon return with all it's frosted purity intact.
The darkness was a singular winter's darkness, illimitable black and ink-like it stripped the world of it's horizon, two children on scooter's whistled past his eye-line and continued off into the distance down his road, they were in t-shirts “fucking t-shirts now? Seriously boys, with all the wind rushing by you on the scooters, mental” he said it with as much sarcastic joy as he could, he remembered days when he was younger in which every one of his friends would be under-dressed for the cold, he remembered shorted youth perpetually whining that their legs were cold, he gave up on telling them to wear trousers or jeans after so many unmemorable occasions.
The frost was trapped now beneath the woollen layers of clothing he wore and he held the cups rim close to his lips steadily, allowing the warmth of the freshly boiled water to encapsulate the features of his face and drive away the bitter cold he was pleased to once again feel. Looking out the scene was enchanting to him, through years of what he wouldn't allow himself to acknowledge as depression the golden glow of lamp-lit darkened streets had became almost comforting. He had spent a myriad of night out traversing the twisting roads, alleys and lanes of his slowly urbanizing environment, this town he resided in for too many years, and of all the sights he could be offered, it was the melancholic stillness of the quaint areas in the shroud of night which most captivated him, he had stared for hours on previous occasions, slumped at a dis-used bus stop or lonely seaward wall, towards the amber glow of street lighting as it spread like inverted shadows across the blackness of tarmac, it was when the clouds had released themselves and viscous rains came pattering down that it truly seemed beautiful. Staring at amber trickles of half-illuminated rain water as it ran between the rough gaps in the road surface, silky blackness rippling with faux-embers, it was somewhere off of jazz street on every lonesome nightly road he chose to over-examine in his reluctance to sleep throughout the quiet, peaceful hours of solicited isolation when finally such an all-encompassing society slept unobserved and unnoticed around him. They were the good nights, and how dark and lonely each had seemed, he longed to return to the poetic lifestyle of late night walks and unheard ramblings, the clarity of his words in these hours was tempestuously greater than his day-lit thoughts, under stimulated and shut away, looking for the beauty of inner reflection which the light had robbed him of, without some portable electronic music device however it would seem he was incapable of such lengthy wondering, even when the thought of laying between rock pools at an unvisited beach, knowing to those who still roamed at distance he was naught more than a silhouette of rock, sleepily allowing itself to be surrounded by waters it wouldn't touch, until he would rise and sit upon one of the tallest rocks, play his guitar and sing songs to the ocean about the horizon he so longed to reach, seemed so appealing at all times. He wished to push the horizon further with every new day, but he knew not of the means to acquire such a simple, never ending cycle of dreamy aspiration.
New sights, he wanted some new sights, internal ones at the bare minimum.

He was high, it was 12:30am and his eyes were tiring, Lifelover was playing through the speakers, it was the first time in three days he had a smoke spread before him, not even a gram, a small spattering of perfectly even and finely chopped cannabis on the S.T.A.L.K.E.R game case, smoothed with a blade, the shotties tasted good again, the song, the song was so cheerful he couldn't help but sway with his enveloping smile.
The dog was resting at his rear on the mattress he refused to complain about this day, he was missing but one thing, and he always was missing it, Her, the only her he mentions, that magical girl he knew too well yet not at all. He always did miss her, tonight however he had once again lost the means to contact her.
He had spoken to her only slightly earlier in the day, taking advantage of O2's lend us a quid offer to borrow some credit and let her know he was once again, for he always seemed to be, having somewhat of a predicament with his internet, he really should start paying for it y'know, fuck it. He was worried about her there's no way to lie, she hadn't sound particularly happy, nor had her cold been shaken off, she knew she was in his thoughts, and he knew she knew, they usually both knew. Still it was a shame to not be able to spend the day, now night, with her for she had taken the day off and even cancelled an appointment, of which he wont mention the details for fear she sees this and gets pissed off with him. As he wrote he was fully aware that compared to the majority of this occasional pseudo-diary tonight's ramblings would most likely be just that, ramblings.. he was cheerful after all, it was moderately rare. The past couple of days had been thoroughly enjoyable for him, much conversation had been had which on the whole had been “joyous” for want of a better word, it really had been a good couple of days with her and the world, things had not been entirely smooth on her end, but he was certain much of her time had been enjoyed too, at least, they had both enjoyed one another's company as much as they usually did other than a few occasional days of insane over-thinking and irrational fears, even attempts at behaving with one another in any way other than what came naturally, it was as if another hurdle had been kicked out of the way, and it hadn't even required effort.
He thought, he thinks, that he should write about something other than her in order to make this bearable to the average reader, he offers apologies for his impetuous loved up drivel, apologies aimed towards the incredibly tiny pocket of people who will read this, ahh he laughed a lot tonight, let's build a shottie eh, he still thought too much, but don't we all at times, he'd cut it down a bit one day, well, possibly, depending how he feels, how much coffee's available, what was going on around him, realistically it seems the chances are he would always over-think, well it helps pass the time doesn't it.
He often thought about rather benign, tedious and ultimately pointless ideas, but he believes most of us do, he could be wrong, still laughing though.  Today's had been nuts and raisins, he had six two hundred gram bags of mixed nuts and raisins, aswell as 3 rather large Tupperware tube which had blue clip-on lids, four clips, one for each side, though they were circular and he was sure the awkward or difficult amongst our kind  would argue there was only the one side, luckily, he wasn't one of those.
Lifelover's vocalist was screaming through the amp, he had remembered times where he'd bled to these shrieks, not tonight, he grinned devilishly, well hopefully, he wouldn't bleed of his own accord tonight, only one sharp blade left anyway, in the fridge, surrounded by sandpaper, it was a mini-fridge which sat on a small 3-tiered set of brown drawers, the uppermost drawer was heavily scratched however it was usable and contained a various array of boxer shorts, he'll spare the details, the majority of them were chequered though.  The middle of the 3 drawers had lost it's shelf leaving it unable to hold anything within, the bottommost drawer was entirely ruined and only the vital face of it remained, it was a purely aesthetic touch now. This mini-fridge he had atop of the drawers had very rarely been used and he was truthfully unsure of how or why he came to own it. This was all surplus information, then again what isn't?, he smiled at this, we're all taught to think are we not, this reminded him of a brief thought he had had as he lay in bed on the previous night, back in our school days, especially those most formulative early, primary school days, when we still young, impressionable and susceptible to change, it was not merely the words of a teacher, it was their use of language as a whole, even down to the tone of voice which would influence the children they tutored, everything about the person was as important as the lessons which they taught, it was the personality of one we looked up to for our own growth which would change us as much as everything else we come across in this world, especially so early on. He was unsure quite how effectively he had transmitted the idea to paper now but assumed the majority of people would see his point, understand, most likely think it's nothing new, he was laughing at that thought, and probably be able to express this opinion in a far more elegant manner than he would be able to manage at the present moment. He had decided cheerily, instantly, the moment he realised exactly how good and tranquil of a mood he was in to change the music he had been listening to. With a true smile, one of the rare contented, comfy, warm, yet not excited smiles, the sort you would wear upon your face as you sit before a fire, with a warm blanket over your shoulders draped in the manner of a shawl, grasping a hot cup of your favourite drink, in good company, silently staring into the beauty of a winter's night, feeling both the freshness of a biting wind as it blows across your extremities, and the constant inner warming of fleeces, flames and hot drinks, the snow falls upon the tarmac adorned with angelic imprints of playful children, all scarcely lit by jewel like stars in those inkiest of night skies.
The winter was drawing in and with it brought all the wonder of fairy tales and horror movies, it was a duality which he adored whole-fully, the stunningly invigorating feelings of low temperatures, biting winds, the occasional and for once admirable streaks of golden sunlight amidst the icier landscape upon your cold skin, the feeling of ice causing you to tread carefully in your attempts not to fall, even the embarrassment of falling was a shared feeling to be enjoyed amidst most of us at some point in these times, he imagined it was not so fun if you were seriously hurt though, not for you anyway, and the evocative sights of snow crested upon every available surface, frosted car windows and unopened burrows of hibernating creatures, it was this season which gave reason for the repressed artists to leave their dens at last. He truly enjoyed the winter months, the horror however was far more fun to talk about. We know the nights, the house Is creaking and the wolves of the sky are howling past your windows, banshees wail in the darkness as long fingered, taloned, spider like beings cast their half-illumined shadows across the face of beings who wrap themselves within sheets as children hide from ghosts to fight back the hideous cold and surreal aspects of nearby branches in our attempts to sleep through the mocking winds. Ashen skies which rained flecks of readily melting ice from the grey above, clouds which swirl and suns which refuse to rise for more than a few hours, the savagery of beaten waves crashing into the remnants of sea walls which had long given up the fight to repel the foaming, spitting waters. Road blockages, highway closed, expect heavy snowfall for what shall feel like an eternity to the commuters. Tree's falling to the ground with a hundred listeners all jumping at the sound, flashes of lightning and flourishes of thunder igniting the child-like fears we know to be false yet can't help but feel. It was at this time of year he would often go on walkabouts in the dead of night, one of 3 piers, the closest of the three, being around ¾ of a mile from his house, was among his favourite places to haunt, this pier was long and moderately narrow, close to the end of it's shining black wooden decked pathway was a small set of steps which would carry you lower and onto a far out harbour wall, horizontally stretching out to the left of the pier proper, this gave the appearance of cavernous yawning distance when in the blackness of night, for there was no end in sight, it was as if you had been placed into the midst of a psychological horror, be it game or movie. Along either side of the pier ran short, ornate, worn lanterns of Elizabethan antiquity, draped between each were a series of white fairy lights, the tungsten bulbs of the old spherical lanterns also cast this fluorescent white light, barely illuminating the scene, instead it's streaks of light ran in thin slivers across the ever present shimmering layer of water covering the panels of wood you walk along. It gave the appearance of oil or wet paint at times, if you can picture oil on the surface of thin pools of water on a black road, the wet paint explains the shining black of the wood, the oil is the ever moving swirls of white light caught within it's reflection, we see rainbows in an oil slick, well this pier was a black and white, noire-esque mimic of such an under appreciated sight. Disturbed on occasion by heavy rains as they pattered against it's surface, he would rarely feel it upon himself as he walked, solemnly along it's entrancing beams, towards a distant bench on the harbour wall, he was aware it was raining, for he watched and listened intently at these times, he could hear the winds and the waves, watching them without moving an inch from the sides as they crashed against the pier, up and over it, smashing into him, the lanterns, the side-line white bench which ran the entire way along the pier proper, and sweep it's way across the floor from one side to the other, harbour side was usually calm, again, it was a duality to be appreciated.
He would carry with him his guitar, it was by far his most, if only truly precious possessions, and without it he knew, for I knew, and as you should know I am him by now, it was by far in a way the most important of his possessions and without it, he was nothing on the bad days. Even now it was sat behind him, the neck resting on his right knee, his elbow over the top of the headstock as he types, as with everything he often paused whatever he was doing just to play a few notes, a few times, in a few ways, “for the feels” as he presumed they say. He was becoming somewhat lethargic, perhaps melancholy was to cast a thin veil upon his aspect this night as he pined to go on his first of what would be a routine trip by the shore, shame he didn't have acid for it, he laughs, he laughs, he laughs, melancholy it seems is yet to transcend his humour for this night.
He had already paused for around ten minutes, and so for a while at least he was to take a break from his typing and resume the clarity of personalized sound.
Tiredness had crept upon him over the past hour or so in which he had enthusiastically plucked a bluesy/country/jazz fusion, although as always it carried with it that heir of slower, cold, bleak, beautifully distant and harmonious yet discordant, ambient to atmospheric tinge of black metal which seemed to worm it's way into the texture of each sessions sound waves. The air was good this night, and still he had a small yet noticeable amount of cannabis left to smoke, spread as it was across his case, a fresh cup of coffee sat steaming before him, the darkest brown made to appear black through depth, a thin streak of smoky, ghostly white spiralling along it's surface, and thick plumes of visible steam floating off into the invisibility of cool air, his shottie bottle sat to his left-hand side joined this spectral display of flitting under-lit glimpses of wisps, with the blue smoke which tumbled out mushroom-like from the top of it's column, he was content, relaxed, smiling, Yidak, Yidak was the band he had decided to listen to way back there, when he rambled on as to how his smile was to be depicted, or how he clearly anticipated with much joy the coming of late, seascape winter walks, though there was many winter walks he loved, and each deserved it's own moment of appreciation, perhaps on a less sleepy night. And so with Yidak still playing, the scent of coffee for once noticeable and that tangible “high” which merely calms and lessens the intensity of glaring sights into something more pleasing, he was tired it was true, but still he knew that slight, furrowing of the brow feeling which the nights smoking had brought upon, it was merely a feeling of relaxation, sensually tired yet mentally alert was the best way he could think to describe it.
So the night was fast ending, and sleep would soon find itself another body to replenish in exchange for sights it would craft from the inner workings of our subconscious which had been gathered and acquired from even the least memorable and faintest snippets of waking life to be abstractly re-crafted into something which though less substantial than any conscious, perceptible, tangible reality of ours, could often be far more bizarre and attention grabbing than our usual sights, occasionally even weaving our doubts/worries/problems and questions into the fabrics of their turbulent shifting mosaic-like tapestries to be observed by our minds eye in the blackest and most solitary of personal galleries.
He had only one thought left to finish on, which he wouldn't transcribe in full for a similar train of thought was consistently running at all times, and would do so until he slept, a good night and best wishes in every aspect aimed to wards her, he hoped she was sleeping well and keeping warm, that her illness was on it's way out and that her day had been calm, peaceful and happy above all, even if it had contained poor health and a possible lack in company due to being in. he hoped other things about her day which he wouldn't type, he also wanted so so so many things, he laughed, and I'm sure most observer's will be able to understand already what he means, he would have those thoughts before he slept without question, it was good to be bad in some ways throughout life, and he had tried so many of these ways that he now felt as if he knew which ones were worth it, the naughty ones shared by happy people, without victim, though a master could be involved, he laughed, he should shut up before he reveals things, which when in regards to another, he probably should keep to himself, real or not. Still laughing.
Normal progression of this pseudo-diary shall we return undoubtedly he could assure himself of that, but the past few days had been on the whole cheerful, and his demeanour tonight was not that of the overly emotional and disturbed personality which he so often found himself to be, especially when he would resume to mad scrawling and typing, no tonight he was happy enough and it showed he felt, apologies for the poor quality, goodnight world, fuckers better sleep well while I'm in a good mood
Dax riggs – say goodnight to the world, A good song from a great album
My final thoughts of the night are reserved for me about someone special, and so from now tonight I end my inner ramblings, to some extent.