"I've been waiting for a guide to come and take me by the hand"

   Other than hanging out with F list tv broadcasters (srsly when I saw my family today everyone was asking “did Alan Partridge actually say you were nicer than his wife?!") this week I also went down to the coast to visit my granny. 
   We went to Arundel and trawled about the antique shops where I found a genuine 1940s red dress that was so beautiful and why am I not rich?
   I also bought three books I have been meaning to read for ages, went to the beach, laughed a lot with my cousins and step siblings and played cards.
   But above all things I find I tend to reflect a lot on my work at my granny’s place. Idk if it’s the pictures of the pope staring me down, triggering an innate catholic guilt that has been genetically built into me or what but I find I reflect on my practise a lot. 
   When I was younger when I visited my granny’s, the space away from the Internet, television and my friends often left me with an uncorrupted open imagination, which often triggered my writing and opened up my brain. 
   This time I find that is not happening so much. But it’s that notion that interests me. An idea usually springs into my head from a tiny fleeting thought, and then I am left with a story, a narrative. So where is my one this time?

I did poetry, for the first time in a while. And it's nice because I don't actually despise it.

The beach

You wake

I wake

In the husk of what was once there

A year gone by

We clung to each other desperately

Back then

Loneliness throws people together

And we collided particles

This love is now stale

I don’t have time

And you don’t have time

malnourished and grey

You snip at my crust

My outer shell

I look upon you

Like a bawlingly helpless infant

Nothing I can really do

The truth is I’m selfish

I climb among friends like hard stones

To get to the water

The divinity, the goal

And to be amongst the stones you must be hard

To survive the long stretch

To make it

To the sea

An almost pretentious observation of a student house party

We had lots of people round in the end last night, I wasn’t drinking so this meant I wasn’t as wired so technically I was more chilled out. Everyone smoked their cigarettes indoors, covering our living room with a grey sheen. Today the world is veiled in fog, and its almost like we smoked so much last night that it all seeped outside and has got into the air. Leaving hazed repercussions hanging in the wake.

Our house parties are always like this, the next day everyone’s heads are foggy and scrambled about after so much being so rawly stripped from them, deep conversations revealing all that go on into the night, someone having a drunken breakdown, a girl putting on her best new clothes to find a boyfriend for the night. Alcohol is some people’s therapy. Inhibitions are the detritus, the real psyche emerges.  The everyday protective husk is broken off, and inhibition is nowhere to be seen.