Journal entry #4: Light daze/days

"You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one"

I'm tired. Not very drunk really. This life of excess is taking it's toll. To further the matter, let's speak about it, the elephant in the room. I may have a problem, with drinking. I suppose, I drink a lot. Almost everyday. Is that where the problem is?

"I'm flattered, really, I am"... Do I look gay? Strangely enough, to some gay people, I do. For the description, short Chinese guy with a Beatles cut and ironic glasses. I was, flattered, but come on. I like women. It would have been nice though, to like men, that way I wouldn't have all the fuss, and I could talk to someone who actually understands me - who am I kidding, no one does. Hope I didn't offend him. It must be fun though, gay people, they're so liberated ... free, little libertines in their sense. I don't have any gay friends, at least, not close friends. I still do ... CIRCLEs

Didn't see her today. Disappointed. I'd say, it's better that way. Once you get to know someone, you tend to either fall deeply in love, or demystify her perfection. But from a far, it's romantic - slightly stalker-ish - but just to look on, and see her laugh, and look back at me: nothing can go wrong. Leaving Britain, she'll be my summer obsession, immortalized in time as the perfect girl. No smeared lipstick, no gray or cuts in her hair, and she looks so ... How can I begin to explain.

I wrote a poem today. I tend to do that when I'm uninspired. My poetry has gone past the barriers of what's understandable. In that sense, it's abstract, and I'd like to think, somewhat rimbaldian. These pages, on the internet, use to be piles and piles of cute yet redundant adolescent love gone astray and in flames. I'm past that. Romanticism has gotten immature. I try to avoid it, but it's part of who I am. Romantic, in the original sense of the term. Skim candle light dinners and whatnot, the melancholia, the images of perfection, spleen and the inability to be satisfied and there you have it, a romantic. It's not glitters and gold, more like heaven and heartbreaks.

London's treated me right. Sure, the weather is reminiscent of my mother's menopausal mood swings, but that's beauty: anything can happen. Maybe that's why I love London. It's got that magic, like, you never know. In a tube you might find love, get stabbed in a bus, write a poem on the bridge or see the first performance, in a dilapidated and smoke infested pub, of any group that's come to save rock and roll... Happened with The Libertines, just as decades before, The Beatles.

I don't feel like talking anymore. I'm writing my life here. If anyone wants to know what my holidays were like, come here. Few regrets though, the redhead, the skinny one, the others and loads of others. Only one that wasn't just a face in the crowd, just happens to be the one that I'll be seeing for the last time tomorrow... Who knows? You can always love in big cities right? Typical, no? Artist boy meets artist girl in subway, they talk and eventually something wrong happens, but then it's resolved and BAM! Happiness. Then again, I don't tend believe in romantic comedies, hence "Sister Ray!"

Uninspired. Hungover. Bored.

I think I'm a pain to anyone who knows me. I may be funny, or just incredibly cynical that it's funny. Then there's the antics, the drinking, mood swings, bad temper, unpredictability, spontaneity not to mention the weekly cries for help... I am really a pain in the ass. Oh...and the big one, I forgot, I'm pretentious.

Yes, yes, all of this is true. I don't know why I write here actually, reading pages and pages of filth, who would? I think an article would suffice, a glimpse, then, no more. I'd get tired reading it, I'd think: "fucking pretentious asshole".

Regardless of whatever was mentioned, surprisingly, I'm quite happy today. And I don't know why. My poetry was garbage, my stomach was aching, I was cold and couldn't pen down a phrase for shit. I think, looking back on this holiday, I think it was nice. I lived. I lived . No one will take that away from me. I loved, and for this, I'll hand over the pen for someone who wrote much better than I did: Musset

« Adieu, Camille, retourne à ton couvent, et lorsqu'on te fera de ces récits hideux qui t'ont empoisonnée, réponds ce que je vais te dire : Tous les hommes sont menteurs, inconstants, faux, bavards, hypocrites, orgueilleux ou lâches, méprisables et sensuels ; toutes les femmes sont perfides, artificieuses, vaniteuses, curieuses et dépravées ; le monde n'est qu'un égout sans fond où les phoques les plus informes rampent et se tordent sur des montagnes de fange ; mais il y a au monde une chose sainte et sublime, c'est l'union de deux de ces êtres, si imparfaits et si affreux. On est souvent trompé en amour, souvent blessé et souvent malheureux ; mais on aime, et quand on est sur le bord de sa tombe, on se retourne pour regarder en arrière, et on se dit : J'ai souffert souvent, je me suis trompé quelques fois ; mais j'ai aimé. C'est moi qui ai vécu, et non pas un être factice créé par mon orgueil et mon ennui. »

Musset: On ne badine pas avec l'Amour

^He said it better than I ever could.

So let's see, I lived, loved, hated, drank, created, wrote, watched, made love, cried, laughed, smoked, pissed, ate, fought, slept ... have I done anything wrong?

I think I'm an atheist now. I feel like deleting this whole article, but, I'd be censoring myself.

I love three things: Bob Dylan, London and the song "Konstantine" by Something Corporate.

Back Saturday. Then school ... then life. And by life, I mean never having to work again. Writing isn't work to me. This coming year will be the last of that bullshit. I can't spend time learning German, my work is going far too well to intoxicate my mind with that ugly language. Safe for Goethe and Susskind, never was a fan. Life awaits me. With its pain and pleasures. Peace