My sentences have all started to sound the same. It feels like in my search for words which might provide enlightenment, I have found myself stunted or trapped, by words conveyed in a certain way and emotion untapped. If I thought it was possible I would show you all the path forward and the way away. From this rust, no matter your mettle or the substance of your steel you will at one point or another find yourself stuck. Founder, I now find myself stuck. Pulled and contorted by It, that wishes to display and protect and Him, who hopes to sin and defect. The anger that scoffed the other day. At the man who meant no harm and just wanted to get changed. Clothes he owned, thrown roughly on a bench and that thus were splayed. Clothes that colonised, land conquered by a grotesque aberration of man who I hated. It still hurts to see. The shadow of the sight of that memory. The way he shifted, his eyes and his possessions, inwards and away. and the way he apologised. I required no expression. It has sat with me for days. How I could claim to be me when the presence of Him prevails. I am not a victim, this is not tragic, it is my voice that narrates and my will which determines, the direction of the man and the purpose of his hurting. Harboured and shared. Do not let me cause you pain, when my resolve is weak and my reserves are spent. When weeks have gone and my nerve has left. I pray, do not tell me that it is okay to feel    my anger and unleash disdain. 

 

Old lady with purple lipstick, I did not expect you to walk right up and nearly through me. You looked more mortified than afraid, that I did not bow at your presence and bid you good day. I apologised, which you scoffed away with your horror eyes. It does not bother me. You are on borrowed time. Your days are numbered and unless tragedy strikes your exhausting existence will not outlast mine. Dying which, if yours, would be nothing more than premature.  A life with an end that came somewhat short. Shorter than the shortness that I hope remains of your grumpy life.

 

To the lady with purple lipstick who, if tragedy strikes, reads the words I now sit with. I apologize. Your lipstick was not that purple. It was nice. I was not me and that was not kind. 

 

Words that serve a greater purpose elude me. I sought something vast yet remain here in the dirt. In the mud with the truth. I try to write, hoping that causes me nothing but commotion. For even just a minute, only lasting for a moment, to animate and become alive. Thoughts and convictions which like critters grow legs and share their existence. I should not be an example of someone to whom you should listen. My room remains collections of clusters of inconvenient clutter, which I lack the energy to divert any further than further onto my floor. This seems natural. In that it’s shared. Not the messy floor, those dirty planes. Shame. Usually arriving in the crease of a shirt which for days of outfits wasted I have pleaded to leave and kept straightening. As well as on top of my head. Hair sometimes swapped for a badger or a bush that I bat until it bleeds. It has made my voice crack before, lashing at my lobe and making my thoughts coarse. Physically, as if I can feel them. Man, neigh horse. A fine pony who struts until his mane gets mangled by plans and thoughts, uncompleted and not fulfilled. Worrying and sickening until his heart is filled, by harm and defeat. His hate and his rage should come as no surprise. How could I feel anything else but the burn of the sting when I look at you all and I hear myself think. 

 

Endless reams of morbid intricacy continue to span through the veins of the city as they always have, endlessly and intricately. Granting, like subtle words folded into used napkins, moments of peaceful silence. Glasgow under the slight of a blue sky can be recalled with ease. Every crevice of the once obscured and now broad being enters into display. Demanding scrutiny and attention to its detail. The offensive orange blocks of building that begin to radiate under the sky’s vibrant interference. Vibrance that turns the leafless branches of the trees into violent strokes of a blackened brush. It is only when emboldened by such beating blue that these pieces all for a moment transform and become held in a calm. Where and as they should be, becoming one shifting, breathing thing. 

Hold yourself and do not think; that a damaged mind could make you shrink; to anything less than you are now. That it would deprive you of what you seek to become. Hold your grasp firmly in the face of your squirming soul. It is in these moments you must be strong that your worried mind breaks into song. La-ba-di-la-ba-daaaAAAGHHHHH. Move on, from the echoes of the words and the phrases, once dispatched to cut and scathe you. It has been too long. Move on, up, down, just away, from the sounds that remain from the time of your pain. It has been so long. You were not as you now are and you are now strong. Forgive those seconds you can’t hold your breath in. Breath of flame and war which melts its path away. One which leads to drying ends and hollowed friends. Solutions that cannot be sought in solvents and which won’t be found here. Smile as much as logic and absurdity afford. Forget circles and squares, the world is all there. For you to define; happiness might come but only with time. It is not yet mine. Not yet. It will not arrive at my frustrated request. If I continue to complain and if my complaints persist. Change arrives. At that place and in its time, exactly when you least want or expect it. Do not expect it. Be kind. Forget this.