Mr Nobody

There is a bedsit with my name on it. Perhaps not my name. Maybe Mannorca House or Sky View but it could be my name. Somewhere by the sea rather than Milton Keynes or Swindon, somewhere inevitably and predictably like Brighton but bedsits there are apartments and well out of the league of a travelling nobody. More like Bournemouth with with its skag and old age running through it like a disease, Eastbourne is no better but at least the pier resembles what life used to be like before this whatever that this is of course. At some point obviously I will have to switch to rolling tobacco once more and endure the wrench and heartache of smoking the devils poison, not for the nicotine, but for the time, a poor mans chess. That bedsit has always been there haunting me daily, nightly and like torture at times of desperation and horror somehow urning itself into a little point in my brain, there to lure me, distract me, comfort me and inspire me to be anything but that. That white cider swigging, failed nobody living for the reason of living with nothing but shattered dreams and a million lost loves. It a hearty thing to perpetually carry around but I think only because I illuminate it with such imagery in my mind that number forty six mannorca house seems more real than not. That struggle has always been the heart of this blog and is no different now with the exception I am actually about to do something.... or perhaps that is an illusion to.