it was a perfect night yesterday and i decided to race alistair morton when we reached the carpark after braving the blitzing cold from the pub; it was chilly, still, dark as we both crouched on the asphalt before paul’s GO echoed in our ears, minds, sinews. i was ahead for the first 30 metres and everything felt the way they used to, light, free, explosive with the wind rushing by me and for a moment it seemed as though as if i had rid myself of my demons, i could run, i could run again.
then the achilles tendons came back to haunt me just as alistair surged past me and i dont think i will ever be quite rid of them.
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maybe that was a gift of sorts, the first thirty metres, an analogy for my first twenty years of my life. but what happens after that, do i hurtle down along the slippery slope, do i hold onto a sprig of birch and haul myself up, do snowballs stop coalescing as they roll down a hill?
aye/nay
there are words, there were words but i have forgotten them as they come along.
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these days i think i’m becoming more like my mom; i used to wonder how she could have sloughed so ceaselessly without doing the things that she likes and perhaps it is a sense of singlemindedness that so defines her; that, and love. life never seemed to be so simple but if you distill it sufficiently enough, maybe it is.
apathy is probably the greatest bane to a human being but these days i find myself succumbing to it easier than ever before. i need hope, i need a faith, i need to thaw myself out of past ages before i can turn the pages.
it’s usually the same mundanity these days; waking up at 6, working to 1, sleeping for three hours, gym/dinner till 5.30pm and finishing at midnight. splits are terrible things, they split your time into countless fractions, pieces of a clear glass and whoever said having breaks in between work is always a good thing.
i had a £20 tip from a pakistani family the other day; was tempted to engage them in small talk and ask which part of india they came from but heeding someone’s comments to not be a smart alec is usually a prudent option. a lady asked if i finished the wimbledon final a week after it concluded and i looked at her bewilderedly before she reminded her i had brought her room service tray in when federer pulled even.
there are many small stories to tell, but that’s all they are, small, prickles, freckles and what i would really want for my birthday is a largeincandescentrespledent story to tell, to shout to the whole world, to bring a smile to everyone’s faces, the way safran foer does.
why do wounds heal in concentric circles and not in linear patterns; do they loop upon themselves in an infinite string before coalescing into a point that falls off?
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it was a beautiful day today, and for an hour there was nothing but the grass, sun, safran foer, the kings of convenience and an empty blue sky. everyday should be like this, or maybe not because too much of a beautiful thing will leave you numb to it and maybe that’s why i should never be in love because i would just stop loving.
run to a corner, hide, observe, partake in it from your own view, never be engaged in a mutual affair.
