Children

As the wind whistles around the building as a summers day becomes a stormy evening the soundtrack for the day as it tends to always be at the weekend is that of children, playing and laughing, shreeching and skurling (whether the latter is even a word(s) only seems to fit in nicely with my point) I forgot crying as that is the sound that most resonates at this current point in time. I sit, out of the back of the kitchen, on my builders chair, watching the children generally act like children which seems to be for the most part really annoying and obnoxious. There are the little creatures that are supposed to bring such joy and love into our life but all I see is a bastard love child of the devil. My mum was right when she merely went along with my previous conclusion that perhaps I would not make the best father but then most fathers I guess perhaps think that they are not particularly good fathers. Maybe not most but again its a whole world I know nothing about and avoid like the plague, shunning all family gatherings of mine and others, of that world where normal people go and talk about so called normal things all the time constantly telling little Maddie or Jo to shut the fuck up but always in that parental loving kind of way. Working here, well working is is strange and for the best part of it I surround myself with a little serenity, for the other part I have an unrealistic boss with a head that baffles me at times and a presence that scares me and a whole life within a life within a bubble like existence that I always seem to want away from but have no idea where. Mr nobody once more. Perhaps

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.