Today I was supposed to face the world. I even believed that myself. But when the choices had to be made, and the indescision grew, I chose nothing. I should have gone to SURGE. I should have gone to the heart festival. But then what would they all say? Had I found god yet? Whether I'm even looking might be a better question to ask. Or maybe; am I the new friend? You ask it, pretending as if you're joking, but I know there's some truth behind your question. It doesn't hurt, but then its not exactly pleasant. Even so, I'd much rather this than the alternative? What even is the alternative? We are not what you think we are; we are golden- teenage dreams like a teenage circus, running around like you did it on purpose.

 

What a waste, where did that time go? Where did our minds go? I don't know. But we fought like tomorrow was promised, and now we have too much. It's cold but I should have known. I'll admit I made a few mistakes; I was so caught up, I didn't have a chance to come up for air.

 

PS. The fact that you text me out of all the people makes me feel special. This is me remebering you. Part of me feels like we both pretend like we don't see whats happening. Face it; we both know there's something going on. [PSS Don't get the wrong idea; any of you...]

 

I other news; the arrival of skins has awoken the rebel side of me. Well sure, it was never really asleep? Drugs, strange encounters? now really! Part of me knows given the access it would happen. Though that does seem to be a reoccuring theme. How about those tracks between hughesdale and fantasy? Surely the lack of boundary will have some result sooner or later? Gotta get on that first train home; just say goodnight and go.

 

There's something missing from here; something known, yet not expressed, if only the remembering was just difficult. sinking feeling. Spin me round again. rub my eyes? THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING; when those buys streets are a mess with people holding there heads heavy. Yeah. Right.

 

life reduced to depressive music, covering faces with sticky notes and the knowlege that the war means nothing anymore. Those brave soldiers running into battle; all for nothing. For the pretense of the war its self. There's no ground to be gained, yet those trenches stretch for miles, and the red poppies are pushing up like daisies, stained black with the stench of war. stop. end. fin.