A little bit about me and everyone else

I didn't want to rush in to anything like this again, but at the same time I know it’s a good idea not to play with it too much before it gets under way. Just like when you spend too long thinking about conflict and then you freeze; you have a window, and if you spend too long you miss that window, and everything is fucked. I kick off a pair of shoes that have started peeling at the toes and light one of those cigarettes I don’t smoke anymore. A good neighbour will always support your bad habits as long as you’re doing something else with them. Essentially there’s nothing more exiting going on than the smoke behind the relieved sigh and Willy Tea Taylor playing on the stereo. He’s coming through the left speaker at the moment, which sets me uneasy, because that’s the one usually refusing to make a sound. I have two thoughts at once. Part of me wants to tell someone that I’ll be waking up before the rest of you to run five miles as a warm up before slogging it out at the gym, but the rest of me, which is the most of me, is head over heels for Sarah. She’ll get a ring out of me and this head will sink no more. Again, I don’t know why I'm here, there’s always something else to do.

There’s a few others telling the world that they’re going at it, but I'm not so sure about them. It makes it easier in some ways. I'm lagging, and void of stories for you. I just want to clutch my freshly shaved head and listen. Some things require trying too hard, but writing isn't one of them.

Another big black guy at the bar, or at least he acts big. I bet he treats every young girl behind the bar as if he was going to become her pimp, but not here… We've got her back, and we’re a fucking good bunch. I wasn't meant to be there, but I ended up there anyway. Not like the problem days, just a quick couple to make sure I wake up with some sins to atone for. Something to drive me through the pain of five miles that would be enough for most these days. That’s the problem. I wholeheartedly believe you've got to push yourself through an immense amount of pain before you begin to feel anywhere near like the something you are. That’s what I'm doing, and I hate to romanticise. So I won’t bore you with my bruised knuckles or my aching back. I’ll just keep at it without saying too much. I’ll save it for when it makes that big difference.

I've got one more cigarette lined up and the dedication to not go anywhere else. Sarah isn't here to hold, so I’ll just rattle on and act like no one cares; just as long as I can feel the stuck keys getting hammered underneath my slumped shoulders: That’s what matters. All stories will be told by accident. Everything else is dead weight. We carry dead weight for the same reason as we write it: We’re too lazy to find anything better, and laziness doesn't always mean doing nothing; most of the time it means doing the wrong thing. I used to be worried about becoming the righteous prick, but now I can crack on with a grin knowing that this works. You should find it for yourself, without any great or not so great motivational speaker. Set your alarm clock early and put some miles behind you, but I'm not here to bore you.

Cut to the throat of everything that makes you think. I used to think this guy was a borderline good guy. Didn't do too much in the way of wrong, but never did anything more than talk the fight. Next year his life changes: He’ll become a father and move in with the mother of his first child. His life is going from a man who talks the talk and spends the rest of his days killing what I expect of man with those easy injections of media and soft drugs. It’s going all the way to that to someone who will raise a kid and love a woman. That’s a man’s game, or so you’d thought. So, why is he sharing his evenings and early mornings with a young slut named *** who stumbles around with a cocktail in her? Don’t get me wrong, when you start to feel yourself becoming the man, you start to feel your knees knock, but that’s no fucking excuse to turn back, especially when you have the brains to contemplate the collateral. His problem is lack of comparison. He has a house mate who pisses on the floor and ingests horse tranquillisers, of course he feels good. That doesn't mean he is good. He’s fucked, but just like the rest of them, he’ll learn when he’s staring in to the eyes of an untouched child, and he’ll feel worse than Judas. They’ll be a lump in his throat the size of history’s first ever apple. Too romantic again, my apologies.

Maybe I should sign off, at least for a while. Maybe I should stop letting the internal conversation slipping on to the page and just let you know when it’s done. I’ll close…

The threat never stops. If you don’t feel threatened you’re not looking hard enough. If you are going at it, and you’re worried, just remember what the old threats used to be. Hopefully you’ll sit back and let a heavy breath out. Forward is forward, and it brings new problems, but they’re bigger than yesterday’s. You made it to tomorrow, so you've already proven that you’re ready. Keep going fuckers.