Boomerang

Boomerang

'It stung like a violent wind that our memories depend on a faulty camera in our minds.'

Hello, future me.

...well, this is awkward. I'd be lying if I'd said that I wasn't used to talking to myself, but this is different because, you know, you don't even exist yet. And I guess that doesn't matter anyway, because you'd know if I was lying. You are me, after all. 

Wait. Shouldn't I be referring to myself in the plural? Since I'm talking to you but you are me and that would mean we should be known collectively and now I'm just confusing myself. Maybe with the years of experience with words that you'll have, you'll be able to sort out this technicality. Now, moving on. 

The future turns into the present so quickly. I'd always thought of it as a little box of potential memories that I could keep under my bed for later, like the hidden porn stash of a boy who obviously hasn't heard about the internet. Now I'm as worried to face it as that boy is worried to face his mum after she cleans out his room. It's unstable and I'm not sure I'd be able to deal with it all, but I guess I'll learn along the way, just like that boy learnt new ways to hide his magazines. 

Traumatic childhood analogies aside, I thought I'd help you (myself?) out by giving some advice because if I don't write this down right now I'll forget it in a few hours. Life is a road where every car is a van with 'FREE CANDY' sprayed onto the side in big red letters, and I know it's horribly tempting to take shortcuts, especially through a van which promises sweets of the complimentary kind, but you must remember where you're heading and keep walking in that direction. Besides, those vans are lying.

First piece of advice; don't die. Seems pretty obvious, yes, but you have a tendency to get yourself into stupid situations and I'm actually a little more worried because the only authority that will keep you in check at your age is the police. I know we promised not to grow up but I'm starting to think that maturity isn't all that bad. Plus, being known as a man-child would permanently harm our reputation. If you die, you don't get to retire and get paid for being old. Remember that.

Secondly, don't let go of the ambition I have right now. I don't want to have grown up just to find that all the plans I made were only the whimsical fancies of an unfocused nineteen year old boy with too much imagination. I want to write a book and travel from Singapore to London by train and learn languages and make a difference but you're the one who's going to have to do all that. And there's no way you'll ever be able to apologise to me if you don't because I'm in the past and I don't see anyone using time machines to get here yet.

Lastly, make mistakes. Fail. Get so close to financial ruin trying to fund the production of your inevitably disappointing solo folk electronica album that you feel like giving it all up, and then learn from it. Learn that there is a reason why folk electronica is not a genre that has a lot of fans, or even exists for that matter. Learn that trying new things might not lead to success, but it will always lead to satisfaction. Don't trade yourself in for a lifetime of repetition in an office cubicle for a little money because what if, WHAT IF, folk electronica breaks into the mainstream? It won't, for obvious reasons, but you never know. Don't take that chance.

This has been fun. I like where I'm going in life and it's up to you not to fuck that up. I will see you in the mirror sometime in the next decade or so. 

Hope I see a manly beard growing too.

Heartstrings

Heartstrings

My patchwork heart is stained
Soaked by my sins and each separate square is held in place
By pins that threaten to slip with every heartbeat

And each thread is worn
Discoloured by age and by love and by rage and 
By shades of expectations they eventually frayed

Fragile and failing
The hues have dulled with dirt and desire and
It beats like its bursting or it actually wants to

But not an explosion
More tired abandon than expel of emotion
A stuttering stop to exhausting devotion

Between each breath the seams relax
And for that short release the tainted strings lay at ease
And await the pull of

another 

heavy 

beat.

The Exclamation Under The Stars

The Exclamation Under The Stars

I met this girl once.

Well, no I didn't. I mean, yes, I have met plenty of girls but the girl I was supposed to be talking about from that first sentence up there doesn't exist. I only wrote that because it sounded nice, all deep and secluded from the rest of the post like a hipster prologue. I had actually planned to write something about love since it's 2am on a Monday morning and there aren't that many better ways of ensuring that I start the week staggering around in public with half-open eyes and arms flailing for balance. So yes, I hadn't met that particular girl. Glad we cleared that up.

I have met other girls though. They were nice, generally. I can remember their names and faces and not much else. Like I said, nice. Or maybe that's just how my memory represents them. I can't really recall much else because most were just forgettable. I used italics for that word because 1) I wanted to emphasise the word and 2) I don't often use italics because they're like normal words but drunk. By now you can probably see how easily I lose focus, so it might not actually be any of the aforementioned girls' faults that I don't seem to remember them as I even have a tendency to forget the point of certain paragraphs when I write. 

There are girls I do remember. Crushes, flames, relationships, whatever you want to call them. Those people who, for at least a little while, meant something more to me than a regular person did. It's easy to look back and dismiss certain feelings as naivety and for the longest time, I did too. It was easier to pretend that those emotional bonds were actually nothing more than a phase that I thankfully grew out of because my sanity finally decided to kick in. I never really believed it though. 

Love is only around as long as potential is; it dies the moment the future does. We're all used to that grandiose talk of love conquering all but if there isn't anything to conquer, what's the point of love? That realisation helped me understand that maybe those moments were real, and maybe I was naive but maybe not as much as I'd subconsciously hoped, and that maybe it was easy to dismiss because the potential had been too.

Or maybe I was actually just stupid. Young love doesn't count, apparently. It's hard to tell from where I am now, but I do know that I have, on multiple occasions, thought that what I was going through was definitely realer than anything I've ever felt before this is amazing don't let it end. It did though, but that's not the point. For that brief, singular moment in my less than two decade old existence, I felt that I was more than myself, tied to this deviously beautiful sight of potential with one other person who I hoped saw it too.

I think that counts.

Blemish

Blemish

Things change.

I apologise for the ridiculously cliched way in which I started this post, and I would completely understand if you never forgave me for it. I'm still having trouble accepting the fact that my fingers are actually deserving of the right to be part of my body after typing something so hopelessly devoid of insight or originality that even a ten year old with limited internet access could have come up with the exact same phrase. If this is the first post you've ever read from me then I guess that also enforces my brilliantly practiced skill of making terrible first impressions. I could start this post all over again but I won't, because you see, that's the point. We're a product of our mistakes.

Or what we think are mistakes. I tend to avoid introspection because if there's one thing I dislike, it's when my ego has the same level of self-confidence as a teenage boy on a Taylor Swift induced cryfest over a girl who he kinda sorta knows through, like, the internet. Taking a good, long look at myself and questioning my actions aren't one of the most entertaining things I've ever done. Partly because I think I'm always right, and partly because I know I'm actually wrong most of the time and reliving those excruciatingly embarrassing moments of my past makes me feel like I'm watching a compilation of the worst American Idol auditions ever and every contestant is me.

But past all the negativity and the why-did-I-even-do-that-was-I-really-that-stupid instances, I actually had a personal epiphany. You know, like those moments in Disney princess movies where it all makes sense and background music starts playing, except that I was alone on my bed in the middle of the night and my phone was too far away for me to start playing any relevant songs. I realised how much I had changed since the last five years, two years, and even since last year. And what struck me most was that the movies really weren't lying because I actually had been oblivious to it all. Those forgettable conversations, those missed deadlines, and those scribbled thoughts; they all shaped me and I couldn't even tell. 

I'm not sure what to make of this. Writing usually helps me make sense of my emotions but I'm still unsure if I should feel scared, excited, sad, or horny. I guess I'm still taken aback by not really being the same person as I used to be because I was literally that person and now I'm not. Also because you're now mentally grouping me with those girls who go on and on about their 'new me' and 'omg ive changed im NOT that person anymore!!1!111!' and it's rather unsettling. 

Maybe I'm scared of who I might become; maybe I'm scared of change itself. I don't know why it even bothers me. I might be (God forbid) growing up. Or not. I guess I'll have to wait a few years and repeat this whole process before I really know, if I ever do.

I still haven't forgiven myself for the first two words of this post. Sorry again.

Payphones And Prostitutes

Payphones And Prostitutes

The payphone stood next to her
And from a distance
They were alike
And as she leant against it
She knew it too

Because she was in disrepair
An ornament for the empty streets
Left to waste and wait
Her sagging thighs could testify to better nights than this

But tonight she's not alone
Scrap metal potential by her side
And they were tired
Both waiting
For a passer-by to spare some time

They stood in silence
Because they'd long forgotten what conversations
Were meant to sound like
Or feel like
But they felt comfortable
Together.

Knots

Knots

These strands of thought are so deftly tied in my mind
Forming knots that I struggle to untie
Weaving lines behind my eyes
Like charmed cobras hypnotised 
And how I see is how I'm paralysed
Open eyes but I'm still blind
I'm not sad but they tell me to cry
So I cry.

there should be a title for this

there should be a title for this

Screw eloquence. Here are my thoughts.

I'm disillusioned by it all. The materialism, the lack of curiousity, the blind faith, the seemingly content will of my generation to just sit back and accept everything at face value and be so carefully conditioned by their environment to not even bother searching for more meaning in their lives. We're destined for mediocrity and it's frightening that no-one seems to be that bothered.

I question everything. Life, faith, people, motives. You see, the more answers you receive, the stronger your thought becomes. Life is about finding meaning in anything and everything because without it there's nothing stopping you from jumping off a building with all the grace of a paper aeroplane. These questions lead you to meaning. It isn't about the answers, but the pursuit of answers that actually have any relevance in your lives. We grow up in a society where we're taught to accept unconditionally, to not challenge old ideas, to just fucking take it as it is. If you're wondering why, the answer simple. The ignorant are the obedient. We'll go through our insignificant lives with a strict process to adhere to. Work, sleep, pay. We become part of a cycle that heeds no benefit to anyone but those who control us. And it's this ignorance that is so prevalent in my generation, one that I feel nothing but shame for.

If you're reading this, you have internet access. Which means you have access to the largest collection of human knowledge ever compiled in the history of the fucking universe. Wikipedia is the most expansive encyclopedia known to man, yet its main use is to get that A you want for your assignment so you can get a degree so you can slave away your life just to survive. You can learn languages, skills, practically anything on the internet yet most choose to while away their time on images of kittens with horrifyingly incorrect text grammar-wise. I mean, I love kittens as much as any sane human being loves kittens but why stop at kittens when you have the whole world before you? Why. 

We're fed concepts and lifestyles of what is right and what is wrong through media, through celebrities, through fucking 9gag. The irony is, we're taught not to think for ourselves. All this information is there to create us because most aren't courageous enough to question why things should be so. All these brands, all these logos, they don't mean anything when they were made in sweatshops in China by the hands of desperate children just trying to survive. Or at least they shouldn't mean anything. But they do, and it's a pathetic excuse for humanity when people are sharing pictures on Facebook on world issues while using everything that they are publicly against. 

Religion just seems out of fashion too. You're seen as backward when you stand by your faith. It's made out as if religion only succeeds in limiting your intellectual capacity. I agree. I agree that anything limits intellectual capacity if you blindly accept it. You do things because 'God says so' but why does God say so, why are certain rules sent down, why do you think you can't ask these questions? 'God says so' is a reason I can't accept because it shows that you don't even have enough understanding in your faith to answer with a reasoned, logical answer that can be accepted in the wider scope of society. Question your own faith before you question faith itself.

I was in a class today on the philosophy and view of different ideologies towards the wider global climate. A couple of girls to the left of me were texting throughout the lesson. I lost count of those who fell asleep. Education is wasted. The man in front of me spoke with a wisdom that I've only ever seen rarely, but the people around me took it for granted. And it's fucking sad, you know. This complete lack of feeling towards learning. That As are just for your future, your job. It's there. Eleven years of free compulsory education and you waste it. Eleven years of information and thought that others around the world have no access to and you throw it away. Granted, education systems do have their flaws, but isn't it our duty to fix it? Instead you choose to let it all pass by you without gaining a single thing apart from the hardly laudable skill of memorising and regurgitation. Without even fucking knowing what you just wrote down. Well done.

Like I said, I'm disillusioned. I haven't even written all I think I could write but writing more could possibly lead me to an even more depressed state than I already am. 

At least things sound a little better with Explosions In The Sky in the background. 

Nostalgia And Colour

Nostalgia And Colour

A different day a different shade that wilts in colour
As this blind nostalgia guides me
The spectrum pales and I'm certain it'll only fade out into white

And the vivid lives we used to live
Are rather rushed and the colours merge
And blur and I can't make out anything but the streaks of what used to be

Lines across the surface not painted
Leaving us a kaleidoscope of hopes 
But they'll be blank and so will we chasing flickers before they dim.

Defend And Attic

Defend And Attic

It was just a staircase. 

Empty, not because no-one was there, but because even passing by could leave you feeling dejected. Each step seemed carefully designed to be at every possible angle other than level. The bannister that ran along the side was marked with peeling white paint under the deep tone of the wooden hand rail. No-one ever used the staircase.

He wondered why. The boy was not more than six years old, seven at most. He possessed the dangerous quality of curiosity that all defenceless infants do until its worn away by the pitfalls of age and education. He regularly passed the staircase on the way to his bedroom. The house he lived in had been around for a few centuries, but he knew it as 'a very very very long time'. The staircase lay at the other end of the corridor of the top floor, a long stretch of stained carpets guarded by a number of pale, lifeless doors. The boy stared from the other end for a while. Stairs were meant to be climbed.

The dim lights gave a yellow hue to the walls. The boy walked on to the foot of the staircase. He looked up.There were about a dozen steps to clamber up before he reached the top. He clambered up. One by one, each step was conquered. He reached the top.

He was met by a door unlike the rest in the house. It was a deep shade of red, with intricate patterns chiselled into its surface. It was majestic, so unlike the stairs that cowered before it.

The boy wondered. He wondered where it led to. He wondered why no-one else went up here. He wondered a lot. While he wondered, the door creaked softly and opened. Heavily, like an aged man sighing as he rises from a chair. All he could see was dark. He walked in.

The door closed.

Island And Door

Island And Door

He was standing on the middle of a creaky wooden platform raised by four beams which seemed to be playing a game of who could sway the most. A larger, sturdier beam stood next to him. A rope dangled off it, gently brushing against his shoulder as if to comfort him. He felt comforted.

He looked out, still, and surveyed his surroundings. They were coloured by these grey clouds just waiting for the moment to spill. They would wait some more. It was only a few short steps, near enough, and he knew he shouldn't rush it. "Enjoy the moment", he told himself.

His eyes glanced lower to the sea of faces that surrounded him. They were on the brink of drowning him, like waves upon a shore, only reflected by the promise of retribution. He smiled. He felt powerful here, atop this swaying platform, observing the faces of fear, of anger, of disgust. He could feel the growing energy amongst the crowd below him, as if they were praying with a form of negativity and it charged him and he felt alive, more than he'd ever been. More than he thought he could feel.

He felt godly.

Poseidon, controlling the oceans before him. He took one step forward. Then another. Then one more. They wrapped the rope comfortably around his neck and he was willing to let it rest there. He looked around, directly in the eyes of scorn and rage. He smiled.

They pulled the rusty lever and the trapdoor gave way as he fell into satisfaction.

Coffee And Walls

Coffee And Walls

The wall was looking at me. I was only looking back.

It stared at me intently, like it had something it desperately wanted to share with me. A secret shame of some sort. I waited for it to make a move. It didn't. I couldn't help feeling slightly disappointed but I had to remember that it was a wall. They weren't used to these sorts of things.

I sat behind a metal table in a chair so worn that leaning back posed a health hazard. The wall still wasn't saying anything so I took the liberty of examining its features. A large family portrait hung on the left upper corner, displaying three sombre faces of people who obviously didn't enjoy having to wait three hours for the paint to merge into what I was seeing now. Behind them spread a mustard based wallpaper with sharp, scarlet lines running vertically to the floor. Or to the ceiling. It didn't matter. The wall still wasn't talking to me. I decided to take a different approach. A change of tactic, if you will.

I offered the wall coffee. 

I could sense the wall being slightly suspicious of my new approach, and cautiously declined. I won't lie, it was a very disappointing response. No matter. This wall would speak eventually. I took a sip of the boiling hot cup of that dark, bitter drug before throwing my arm forward and spilling the contents directly onto the wall's face. It kept silent. 

I wish these walls would talk. 

Death And Bubblewrap

Death And Bubblewrap

I need people, or friends as some might say. I don't feel like I deserve to call them friends but that's how they would appear to most. I use them as a shield. It's that shelter; that comfort of having a safety net to fall back on, to protect me from harsh realities like death and no internet connection. People are my bubble wrap.

Assurance; to be wrapped in the safe confines of a thousand air-filled pockets that individually, are as fragile as me. I feed off of that comfort, not as an addiction, but as a condition. Life enjoys my weakness. Life is that little child who runs over to me as I'm unboxed, pops the breath out of my safety and takes it all away. One by one, life kills them. 

They're all dying and this fragility is starting to frighten me.

Bones

Bones

You know when you're young and you break a bone
And you flinch at the pain as it takes you whole
And you swear you won't be bad again
Because all you want to do is escape the pain
And you fight but it won't go away
So you pray and you pray
'It was a mistake!' you'll say
You don't forget those days


Those days when you're lost and you learn
You're helpless and you yearn
For someone to turn and guide you through the hurt


Because to your dismay
You find that bones aren't the only things that break


Like how promises are just as brittle
As the bones you broke when you were little
Like how a marriage could fall apart
The laughable emptiness of 'till death do us part'
Like how the pressure leaves you shaking
You hope to heal so you're stranded waiting


And by the end you just wish you were that little kid
Who knew of pain as something which
Hurt a lot but for a bit
And didn't last like how it did
And didn't scar like how it did
You think of how it was before
And breaking bones doesn't seem so bad anymore.

Fall

Fall

You run and the road beneath you moves backward but you haven't gone any further
And you trip trying to keep up with the spin of the earth
It's hard to settle when the momentum threatens to cast you
Into flight 


But if for a second you were suspended
You would accept it
The hang in the air 
To rebel against gravity
To pause in insanity
And feel that this has to be


A temporary bliss but those seconds are taking their time
And you might look around but the air past your eyes
Blinds your sight and 
Save for the cushion of empty that envelops your body
You become oblivious to heights to drops to all
To the flight before the fall.

Deathbed

Deathbed

Stranded in the dark pitch black unpolluted by light
A glazed look but I find it comforting how we are blind to what we cannot see
In this nothingness we are everything we could ever be


Holding on to the air and breathing there's a breath that leaves me
Shaken at the thought that I'm comforted in fact
By this strange abyss my eyes don't see this eternal black


They said it should be cold here but I don't feel it
Said it should be empty I'm more at peace than I feel I'm allowed to feel
And they said it should have taken the life from me 


But it took a life for me to see this everything and nothing
Staring straight ahead I dared the dark to look back
And it did and I closed my eyes 


And nothing changed.

Star

Star

Those stars that light the sky are scars that tear into our eyes
Looking up a cold embrace a fake smile a hint of malice
A state of wonder and I'm paralysed by this desperate shade of isolation


But your hand brushes mine and I'm pulled back into time
The one where it stops and there's just me and you and the air hangs still
Alone together a constant spill of dreams and hearts that meld 


You smiled and I did and all else seems pointless now lines said without words
Because all that was needed was the presence of us of two of me and you
Of scars and stars that shape the black and cloak the sky for us to fall into.

The Romance Of Streetlights

The Romance Of Streetlights

I've always found streetlights strangely beautiful.

I'm sure more people would, if only they took the time to look up. We often ignore what our eyes can't see, but then again, you can't ignore what your eyes never know. 

Bright, like candles hanging in midair above the terraces and ever changing colours of the traffic lights below. Above the green go, amber slow, red no, they stand stationary waiting for the light to break the dusk. 

Nothing but still, watching the blur of headlights and metal speed past along the grey streaks dotted with white that line their each side. Silent and static amidst the chaos. It's a sight to look up and see this luminescence framed by some vast expanse of dark and stars flickering softly in the background. "Turn your head up" is all they'd ever ask if they could speak. Politely, of course.

Rather this than roses and a box of chocolates.

Shoestrings

Shoestrings

Well, isn't she just the most wonderful abandoned building I've ever seen? 


Outside in, so promising. Potentially exquisite. It's sad, really, the state she's in. The regal red brick facade trying to mask her deteriorating interior. Oh, how it's trying. Her ceilings have all but collapsed under the weight of what she was. Her wallpaper lines the floors rather than the walls, torn and shed, damp and shamed with moss. Her rooms lay bare and still with the cold drafts that breeze through doorless panels. 


She's falling apart in isolation, and I can only look on. 


She's cold now. So cold. It's such a shame. She used to be a thing of beauty, you know. You could only imagine the charm she possessed, the faces she lit up, the warmth she brought with nothing else but her presence. She was home. Now all that's left to remind us of that are the crumbling fireplaces, staircases, pockmarked traces of love and untied shoelaces.


Wonderful, wasn't she. 

Graffilosiphy

Graffilosiphy

Scribbles.

Awkward paraphrasing and bold lettering adorns the endless lengths of the empty canvas most people refer to as a crumbling wall. Fluorescent colours play contrast to the bland, bleak background of the birthplace of this beauty. Or vandalism, as some may call it, though I don't see the difference. 

There's nothing more beautiful than finding chaos in serenity, rebellion in the peace, or the repulse in attraction. And isn't this all that really is? An escape from elegance, where secrets are sprayed over the sprawling street walls to an audience of ants and discarded plastic bags. 

Maybe that's all the audience that was needed.

Say hello to the modern street artist. His spray cans have morphed into the smattering tap of fingers dancing across a keyboard. His canvas is as blank and vast as ever, though now it follows its addresses with the obligatory '.com'. He drains his mind and his heart for a few poetic scribbles to be scratched onto the surface of his computer screen for a new audience, one of more human capabilities than your regular plastic bag, but at times, less emotional capacity. All this with the knowledge that they'll only be forgotten by the next time his screen lights up, whitewashed with time and our natural instinct to forget.

Our thoughts are just memories to be painted over.

Roses Are Red

Roses Are Red

And she found that she didn't love me, and it was all just the habit of attraction. 


It's easy to get them mixed up. People talk about 'falling in love' but really, it's all just the safe comfort of habit that they fall into. They fall in love with the routine, not each other. Of course, they'll deny this vehemently, but deep down, they know it's true. They grow accustomed to the feeling of being wanted, of finally being relevant to a person other than themselves. They'll enjoy that incredible rush of power over another's emotion, however cynical that may sound. But as people tend to do, they get tired of routine. And when this extended routine meets its overdue end, the hollowness that they feel isn't the pain of lost love. It's merely the absence of habit. 


Love is like a cigarette. The first rush will fade eventually, and all you'll be left with is a habitual monster that is only there for your money and your health. And no, I'm not referring to anyone in particular.


I'm still a romantic, though I wouldn't call myself a hopeless one. Being a 'hopeless romantic' never really made sense to me. Romance is, in essence, pure hopelessness. Romance is surrendering yourself to the possibility of the hopelessness of life alone. Romance is being hopeless enough to create a void in yourself for the minute probability that one day, maybe someone as hopeless as you might come along and fill it. Romance is seeing a beautiful woman across the room and thinking 'Fuck it.' and going there and actually saying 'Hi'. Romance is throwing your hands at chances you know you can't ever reach. 


There's a certain beauty in hopelessness that I don't quite see in love. Love promises hope, but the more hope there is, the more romance dies.


If this was more eloquent I'd have posted it on Tumblr. Oh well.

A Cynic's Prayer

A Cynic's Prayer

Look up.

Let us watch this glorious moment of self-pity riddle our expectations like acid rain sweeping across some dimly lit scrapyard on the crossroads of 'we're fucking lost'. 
The abject heaps of abandoned metal lay bare and naked, facing the sky paralysed. 


Rusted and rusting.  


Crashing rain tears through them at such a delicate pace, running off their surfaces with the intricacy of tunnels carved by ants. The copper tinged haste of metallic tears, metallic blood, and metallic sweat fall to the ground. And so ends the silent slaughter of goodwill. 
Hope wants to be a distant memory, but iron hearts tend to forget.  The only question left to ask is 'Are we dead yet?'. 


It all depends on what you count as living.

Chinese Tattoo

Chinese Tattoo

This isn’t love but it still feels nice 
With these immaculate and warm insides. 
Never once stopping 
Like a shark in its sleep moving just to breathe. 


This is what you call “free?“ 
Harsh as it seems, maybe “love” means being naïve. 
The pure and eager part of me, like pledging some sorority,
Is losing its virginity in some bathroom during “hell week.”


                                                                    - Roar

Graves

Graves

She was smiling.


Her tender lips were curled upwards at an angle which said much, but revealed nothing. They were painted with a layer of red lipstick, the type that is saved and used only for the most important of occasions. I smiled back.


I couldn't see her very clearly. The clouds were grey and shadowed above us as we stood staring at each other. They weren't dramatic. They didn't stretch across the sky with a shade that warned you to shelter. They were just grey clouds, filtering the light and stealing the warmth and leaving us with the sharp chill of the wind.


Despite the cold, her cheeks were rosy and warm and breathed colour into her porcelain skin. She was still and quiet, but her eyes were expectant. They were inviting, pushing me on to say something. I didn't. We just stood there, her outline mirroring mine, her soft brown hair weaving their way towards her shoulders. 


She was fading now. Not only from my sight, but from the remnants of my memory too. I could barely remember her voice, and she was refusing to speak. I still remembered that day though. I still remember why she was smiling. That was enough for me.


I put the photograph back into my pocket and stepped back onto the gravelly pathway which crunched satisfyingly under my worn black shoes. The cemetery isn't a nice place to stay for too long anyway.

The Salesmen

The Salesmen

Welcome to the era of exaggeration. We sell the hype, you buy it. 


Of course at first, you might be a little reluctant to join in with the choruses of unbridled dedication, of complete and utter submission to our 'products', but worry not. We have our ways. With our charisma and charm you'll find us completely irresistible to the senses. No-one resists us. You might hear some parties talking about how we force our 'products' down the customer's throat. We like to put it differently. It's an acquired taste, we just help you acquire it. Once you do, you'll fall in love. Everyone does. Everyone has to. 


If we had it our way, you wouldn't have much choice. Then again, we always get our way.


Our brand of sales is much more than your usual door-to-door selling. It's like a nice, warm version of mass hysteria. Instead of panicking out of fear and stress, everyone enjoys the loss of control over their emotions. It's lovely. We're positive that we'll convert you. You won't even notice how far we bend your will to our cause. 


You'll love it. We'll make sure of that.

Party

Party

I'm sorry,
Can't make your party,
I'll be busy burning.


And I'm afraid
I'd kill your lover
While your back was turned.


So this is where you wanted to be,
And it's a Goddamned shame that you're not here with me,
And I can't see your face anymore
But if I could, it wouldn't look like before.


The thought of your hands
On his chest
Makes my stomach itch.


And I see pictures now
Of the two of you
And it makes me sick.


Damn, I love you.
Damn, I love you.
Damn, I love you.


Damn.'


                                  - Keaton Henson