Reading writing

I couldn’t understand what he was talking about, but it sure sounded cool. I knew he had all my money in his future and that was red. Red like a London Bus. Did he understand me? I shouldn’t think so. Give me a pint of petrol I said. He didn’t understand that. Well why would he? He was from a different reality from the one I knew. Outside the sky was green. Inside it was pink. Smile and the whole world falls apart. 

We passed her outside the station, but she didn’t recognise us. She didn’t even notice us. She was locked in a world some place else. Well forget you, we thought. Was it something I said? Probably. Saw her again. I knew what I wanted to say; just to check she was alright. She looked lost, but I said nothing. I did nothing. Me in my stupor. 

None of your business. I was only asking. So? You didn’t look very happy. Do I have to smile all day long?

It would have ended there.


I said nothing and I walked away. I think I messed up. Messed up big time, as they say. Who? I don’t know, but I’ve heard it said. Messed up with these people I’ve met. Getting too comfortable with them. Enjoying their company too much. Admiring them too much. Never admire. Admiration is bad.

So it seems. 

I shouldn’t have said I thought one of them was cool, because now they think I’m a loser. Probably think I want more than friendship. The price you pay when you admit your respect. Let me have a blue tongue and gold lips. Let me be someone else. I could be anyone they wanted me to be, but they say, “stay as you are”. Well I will, but only if that means I get something out of it.

I suppose he has a point, but I’m still lost. I want to share my writing. I want to hide it too. I hate my book, and I love it. Did I do it all in the name of pity or is it just this song corrupting my views? Who cares? I feel like it’s all patronising. Have I read it too many times? Is it too familiar or what? It drives me crazy. What can I do?

Relax and let anyone read it? Perhaps that’s the only way to settle my mind. But I don’t want to lose people. I guess if they don’t like it, then they wouldn’t really like me anyway. No point in pretending. The sky’s not green anymore. Now it’s purple and I feel insecure. My mind plays tricks on me. Something plays tricks on my mind. Honesty. The truth.

But I don’t know what the truth is. And will I ever? Not the ways things are going, because I don’t have the guts to let anyone read my work. What will they think of me. It’s like a horror movie. That’s patronising. That’s offensive. That’s sad. That’s embarrassing. That’s a cliche. 

A message under the door. How embarrassing. Why the hell did I leave my folder on the kitchen table and my depressed note, “everything I write is patronising”? It slipped my mind. Now my head is filled with guilt; like I’m using my friends as a counselling service. The reply: “empathy is not patronising”. I had to look empathy up in the dictionary. Well, what can I say?

Everything I write comes from experience. I cheat. My imagination is limited. I rearrange experiences. I stitch together what I know and I write it all down. Still feel lost. Still feel ill. I’ll let him read it first. He seems to know the world better than I do. And I trust him. If he doesn’t like it, he will tell me. Fine. Read it.

Peaches came from a can. They were put there by a man, in a factory down town. Flow like a song. Be cool. Medicine. Bother. Forgot. Wait one minute.

Sod it.

Listen to that thumping bass. I don’t want nothing. I mean, I want something. Yes, not nothing. I can be such a dog. And I try to justify everything I do. Oh hell. Why can’t I just relax and stop thinking? I’m boring and I’m a dog. Great. I’m sorted then.

Paranoia strikes me again.

Let me out.

My brain is squidgy. I’m going to have an omelette.

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