Questions in a world of Blue

26/06/2013 at 20:34 (Personal)

This scene, from the David Lynch series Twin Peaks / film Fire, Walk with Me, has always meant more to me than any moment of its schizophrenic run. Even the scene when Leland Palmer …
Wait. You might not have watched it. I’m cruel in the eyes and hands, but never a spoiler.

But there’re always these filthy riffs to set things right, and strut to:

Angelo Badalamenti is some kind of awesome. Twin Peaks / Fire, Walk with Me, are two favourite writing soundtracks.

I’d love to laugh at this banality of existence, day-by-day conversing with estate agents who’re performing slow vampire sex on my bank balance and morale, while inept employers misdirect references…

Our kick-out date looms, this weekend. We’re half packed, half-starved from lack of appetite, and dying for a night out. I only realized today that I’ve not had a holiday since June last year.

I mean, I’m a workaholic, but this is a little ridiculous.

It’s our 5 year anniversary this Friday. Neither of us has the energy or emotional impetus to celebrate. The past 2 have been a gradual precipitation of apathy.
I’ve no time. Not enough left, and I need my life back. To travel, and see the world as I should have, all those years ago in my teens, before depression crept up and quietly bit me. New faces, new places. Writing about both, all the Boho stuff, shine and murk.

Above all, I want to find somewhere that feels even half like home. So that when I finally tire of the world, I’ll have a place to fall into.

When did our faces become so plain to each other? When did the words become too hard to say, when they sprang from our lips like blood before? I used to feel that knot in my chest. Now, I breathe clearly again. Except when I think back on what we had, who we were; then, the memories try to drown me again.
But I can’t subsist on memories. No one can.

I’ll probably end up erasing this entry in 24 hours time, once I’ve wiped my face down, reread its self-pitying bilge, and laughed at myself. As all good Brits do. Normal service will resume tomorrow, when I’ve had enough sleep to think clearly.

I’ll edit the novel some more, add chapters here and there as needed; paint the walls of my kingdom, and fashion it with lives I can control. More and more, I dream of living in Reighton (or at least, the universe it exists in, as the town itself is in slow economical and emotional decay.) I want to live where the blue roses grow; where time can be held still, so we can look each other in the eye, just that little bit longer.

At least my friends on the other side of the pond, have had an ace day. You couldn’t ask for more, of a midweek.

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