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Enter Striped Leggings Girl. For she will now hence be known.

Everybody loves a bit of confidence boosting. It's nice to feel attractive, and, especially for such a former shrinking violet as myself, it's very confidence boosting.

Every so often, such an event happens to me, and I'm never entirely sure what to do with the attention. I almost see it as a joke, as a bet or something. Having been a man who has trouble reading flirting signals, I found myself essentially being bombarded with them. From an extremely attractive girl.

It's not the first time this has happened, but it's reasonably rare enough for my tail to go up. I often wonder if it isn't my looks, but rather my demeanour that stops people approaching me.

Well, last night I had no such presentation of myself. I was happy, vibrant, and chatty, and thoroughly enjoying the night in the Stars, as the quiz was undertaken. Rather out of the blue, a beautiful young woman, in her early twenties, planted herself unceremoniously next to me and made it clear that she was very happy with this arrangement.

I appreciated this. She was pretty, sweet talking, and smart. Not really used to that in these places. Her body language was obvious, even to me. I felt good and confident, so I chatted, not feeling inhibited.

Well, neither was she. She drew in close and was very much apparently comfortable with touching me. I didn't resist. At one point she made the comment:

"You know who you look like? Heathcliff!"

"What, the orange cat?" I replied, pretending to be ignorant for laughs.

Of course, she meant the bloke out of Wuthering Heights. In all my years, this comparision is my favourite. It's my favourite because Heathcliff, despite his grumpy, brooding rage is often seen as rather beguiling because of it. It is precisely the image I like. Not being a dick to people, you understand, rather the brooding bit. Apparently she found this compelling reason enough to approach me.

She then stretched a cute, striped leg across my lap and into my groin, nuzzling a part of me that hasn't had much fun lately. I'm not gonna lie, that felt arousing. Very arousing.

And I liked her. However, I was constantly looking around and wondering if it was a bet, some sort of joke. As I am quite the fool, I failed to get her name or number.

I am a chump. A much more confident chump, but a chump.

I'm going to find out who she is. I'm pretty sure it's not the first time she's been there.
This, my friends, is a journal entry. It is that rarest of things. I have had a lengthy hiatus from doing this. There isn't a particular reason. I simply have had no compulsion to do it.

It isn't related to mood, or epiphany. It is what it is.

Let's fill you in on the recent events.

I gave up alcohol earlier this year. On January the fifth, after a traumatic evening's events I won't go into the details of. Suffice to say, it was an eye-opening time, and a swift, sure kick up the arse. I always knew I could do it, but I did not realise that I'd be able to do it for six weeks.

It's now three months later, and I've ingested alcohol on three occasions since then. On all of these, I kept to sensible levels, and will now only indulge when happy, fit, and on a day when I really feel like I will enjoy it. Alcohol, for such a long time, was a way of diverting from routine, and sadly, it became routine. In fact, it became all I did.

Now, I see alcohol as something that is largely superfluous, and tiresome. I am enjoying more the sporadic nights out more, and I like being in even more. I like having a lucid, smart mind. I like not being bitter, depressed, and self-gazing. It's nice.

True, I'm more estranged to certain people than I'd like, but there's perhaps a good reason for that. I take it as a simple changing of life. I'm a lonely character, always have been. The thing is, I no longer seek the reassurance and company of others. I do, however, still find the joy in certain friendships, and am increasingly thankful of the close ones I have.

As for my writing, I use it now, as a release of the romantic, a purge of it. I am no longer romantically inclined; I do not feel giddy or excitable about it, and I treat my writing on its themes as a more vicarious thing. I like it. It's a sort of fictional bubble.

My attraction to people now appears to be entirely sexual, and I don't feel even that toward many. I'm not saying I am immune to love, but it's surely hibernating.

Additionally, I feel a little more attractive than I ever did. This hasn't translated to much in the way of explicit attentions, but it's a far-cry from the timid, scatterbrained fool I was. I'm not unhappy with that.
In this field of dead roses,
she shimmers in a black and blue dress

she aches to be alive
to be real
but she is wood

rooted and searching,
her eyes never truly dancing
the branches laden with snow,

the boots leave prints all over her feet
as she tends to the wounds
of the woodland animals

licking and kicking
the wild ones fight her touch,
but not for long

they cannot fight her for long...
It is Friday. I have been continuously in a strange mood all day. Fuelled by energy drinks, the likes of which appear to have an hilarious effect on my brain, I have had a kinetic and fervent physical looseness, which has caused me to be constantly chuckling, singing, and doing silly accents.

I've also been walking the streets laughing my bloody head off. I must look a right freak. I walked into TESCO after work sniggering at various thoughts, slammed several things into my basket, tailed some bloke on the way to the self-service, and pulled faces at the back of his fucking head, while doing a sort of cockney jog.

Imagine if he'd turned around.
Another great story from the archives. Today I went to TESCO to buy some hayfever medicine. I couldn't find any in there. Pointlessly, I picked up a bottle of cough medicine, hoping the words would somehow morph from "COUGH" to "Hayfever relief." They did not.

While putting it back, I managed to dislodge another bottle, which fell onto the floor and politely shattered, disgorging its tell-tale black contents over the stark white floor. I stood agape, hoping that some Deus-Ex Machina conceit would allow for a speedy resolution.

There was none. I simply stood, and hoped nobody had seen. An old lady stared down the aisle at me. I stared back, wondering if this was a challenge. Would she snitch? Would she tell the staff? Embarrassment bombs exploded, blowing the limbs off my mind.

There was one thing for it. I strolled at speed right outta there and went Boots. They had some fucking hayfever tablets at least.

No more my brother

Though you say

that you are my brother,

still you share the red eyes

that you so despise,

on the face of the other

I am no more you than him,

and he is no less my brother,

than you,

for I do not choose my brother

or my sister,

on blood, bones broken, or lives lost

and I do no share in your skin

any more than I do him

he may throw stones

but you throw bullet, you tear

you blind, you swear the same oath,

but your venom

comes from your own shredded teeth
My love is ever cyclical. It turns in the wheel, it returns evermore to the original point, and it is as easy to forsee as the turning of the Earth, the death of matter, the birth of the bird from the nest.

It is as the rotation of the synchronised planets, the elliptical swarm comes back, even the trail becomes the lead, even the curve of silver becomes a warm reminder, as the years grow colder, I will return to my most adoring state, in love with the world and the axis on which it spins, on, and on.
Falling in chestnut waves
you still halt
every single night
like a death
like a bird clipped
of wings, still I never
ever stop wondering

what would arise in
black eyes
yearned so long
in ink black syllable

you do not know
half the truth
my darling
heed not my self pity
it is fleeting

and know I never come
back to you
ever too gratefully
or ever gracefully

I only come back
'cos I want to be here
caught in the area
between ear, and
between here and now
between love and the reality
nostalgia and wisdom

I kick myself to have lost you
but what would I do to find you?
would I really kiss you upon meeting
or would this feeling be fleeting?

could we still love
during years rendered so numb
I don't know, it's eight now my love

I've spent longer breaking my waves
bursting words in paintings above

I'm not so sure anymore, my ring dulls faint
I'm not so sure,
I'm not so sure...

Apr. 23rd, 2013

taking humble feet on tired step
there isn't a cloud in her sky
but there is in mine

she will walk the breeze
while I get stuck on the moon
it's the way it goes

catching my foot,
tripping on love
standing in puddles

kicking in the sea
drowning for her daughter
dying for my son

we could never quite meet
with maps so stretched to breaking

breath

with her hand
on my chest
i am only just breathing
but to breathe I still must

with her hand on my neck
i am suffocating fast
but i must stay conscious
to feast late on the past

with her hand on my lips
i can barely speak
her amber stare
freezes my words there

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zoomeister
Butterflies in the stomach, rocks in the head.
Bonus Zone.

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