Conspiracy Soup

The world is conspiring in bills and bad fortune to make us broke yet again so we’re in the soup (as my mother would say in a metaphor for drowning). My car has, yet again, pulled an ace on needing fixing.

Seriously considering selling it and getting something cheaper to insure and more reliable… like another Micra. Maybe not a yellow one this time though.

As nice a car as it is to drive, my Punto has been far more hassle (and expense in repairs) than she’s really worth. She’s also costing me far more in insurance than I can really afford at the moment. And, as much as I don’t like the idea of selling her, it seems like it would be a good idea.

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Pink Ribbon Scars

The typewriter leaks ink on the muddied floor of my mashed up mind, but here in white crayon the letters unfold beneath blue splattered lines. I have scribbled in unfathomable words the discord of heart crimes and regrets. A waxen figure cuts the page, all pale silhouette.

A character of bittersweet memory and cloaked intent, she is my queen of disconnection.

Her tongue stabs with paper cuts in inkblot stains. This is my saviour. This is my wax scrawled beauty, half-sighted and sore. In broken dreams she haunts me.

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All The Lonely People…

I get this Beatles song stuck in my head quite a lot. I’m not sure why. My dad used to play them to me when I was little. He’d swing me around to their music until we were both dizzy and had to sit down.

Sometimes I feel as if things like that happened in another life. It’s almost as if I can’t remember them as me, but I do.

Anyway, my favourite song then was apparently Octopus’s Garden. The thing is, I only know the first two lines of that and I don’t remember the tune, but Eleanor Rigby sticks with me like no other.

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Hush Little Dove

There’s supposed to be some escape in dreaming. I can tell you there’s not.

Instead there is your subconscious poking at things that are best left alone. When I can get to sleep, I am sleeping a lot recently. The getting to sleep is hardest; second only to waking and realising everything you’ve dreamt is just that… A dream.

An old picture of me taken by me.

A great writer once wrote:

‘It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that’.

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