A rebel without a clue.

Retracing my mind's path over the last couple of months I find it is locked on a collision course with thoughts of a previous fool. Luckily I redeemed it for my own sake in time over the course of an autumnal weekend hidden. Lingering on Saturday with a broken hangover and retiring early from crowded threatening Leeds City Centre, after a none ideal trip via hybrid shaking silver bus, I left the world beyond the window pane (I so recently serenaded) to another grey gun metal zero. It is now a question of reform and order again otherwise I will be fighting my twisted hand for the pistol I meant to drop.

October rain appalls against the window pane and I listen in the half light to another era - Let Me Roll It, Paul McCartney and Wings, Band On The Run 1973 - PAS 10007 Stereo (Apple). Autumn came at us without warning on Wednesday and it is drawing all the nights in (Summer is a grayed 2B hatched marble history). Drifts of a leafy death which clog our veins in dark tannins - we need to break away from this cloud drugged afternoon drooping eyelids and dribbling nose. We didn't want this again! We are tired as tyres spin hopeless against the ungrateful. Something beyond our understanding deadens, clustered and draining away want or need; grasping, out at withered hands, and gasping, whispering dreadful breathes. Today is Sunday and resistance to an alcohol fueled pyre is all my body feels before the brief undermined sunset occurs.

I have been in a 'nothing' loop since I returned to England on the sixteenth of August 2013. It felt like my brain had collapsed into a grave and left my body wandering lonely without a source or outlet. A few attempts to edit what I had written felt empty and hollow and it seemed I couldn't leave my work 'as is' without grammar and sense input for a conventional audience. Who am I to want to portray myself as a standard plug, a indistinct human? Today I recoiled from my own banality and was sick to the pit of my being. It is still really just me and the rest in opposition juxtaposed flowing against the drowning heavy surge which is assimilation. It was necessary to draw breath and forget my trials over the summer just long enough for me to grimace again. So I will not let my thoughts evaporate into the autumn squalls completely. As long as I am aware some hope resides I will be brave and dwell in the realm of nine and five/Monday to Friday even while I feel threat...

Monday. July the First and I am returning to number forty-two again, yet I cannot help feeling another walking, hiking, hitching and fleeing adventure is already calling out to me. Before there is even the subtlest whiff of our social decay, drifting through my complex questioning mind, I will glance away from the corrupted source of decadence to prevent my melancholy self. My home town - Wetherby - always keeps me fighting, struggling and reeling: it feeds a feeling of our unrelenting doom and I am frighten into a very real and personal hysteria. Once more, as I am reduced by Wetherby to an absolute literal pin-prick focal point of existence - a nothing, I find I must escape here before it gathers me into a heavily brassiered breast where I am hugged gagging for air and suffocated in the end! Other waves must deliver me freely upon another bountiful shore; where to next as this tide recedes  July isn't an end but it may be the beginning of an end? Tuesday. This ...