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Someone call quality control.
The zeroth hour

A piercing surge of emptiness and self-pity that I'd tried to ignore but that had been building all evening suddenly rushed through me. And after that, all that remained was the meaningless sorrow that occurs when depressant chemicals and melancholia are combined. The evening wasn't at all bad, indeed many good memories were harvested, only it was worse than I expected, and I had been in need of a good lively party for a long while.

Actually, the overwhelming emotion I felt that night was probably regret. Regret that this was the most exciting thing I could think to do to welcome in a new year and that I'd allowed another wasted year to slip on by. I wouldn't have minded so much if it hadn't pulled such a ridiculous face as it did so. Here I was, using my life to be finishing off a pint in a half-empty pub with a bottle opener stolen from home in my pocket and horrible music surrounding my ears. I will soon have to go back to school where I will fester away, grow to hate my roommate and look forward to coming back again for more evenings like this.

Once, soon after I met her, Sissy said that I'd start to hate the school after about six weeks. How scarily accurate she was...

And yes, I sat there and I wondered why I allowed myself to continue to get upset over a girl. I viciously asked myself increasingly trying questions but never it seems, the right one. Why do I waste so much time over a corrupt memory of ghosts from the past? Why oh why does the spirit that haunted Sisyphus still trouble me - why am I continually unable to walk away from that despicably abhorrent boulder and hill down in Hades? Why can't I even do anything to help myself?

I felt so empty. I didn't even notice when Big Ben chimed. I wanted a better life for myself outside of Canterbury's city walls. But here everything was just as bad - no-one new, just people I once knew. Me; even here still a pusillanimous pariah. I knew I been kidding myself all along in a typically dogmatic mine's-better-than-yours way: life would have been better had I stayed. And then everything I'd desperately been trying to forget instantly flooded back, all of it from the very beginning of that cruel peripeteia. Here I was celebrating a randomly chosen date and feeling morose because there was no singing of Auld Lang Syne and of the good old days, no-one to kiss and no anticlimactic television countdown. We were utilising an excuse for a party, but all I could think was that there was no conceivable reason to feel jubilant and roister.

I stumbled outside and wept, wept long and hard as though it had been teargas I'd been drinking all night. Warm salt tears streamed down my face, scalding my dry skin and falling onto the clothes I'd laboured over choosing, hoping they would make me look good. I trudged outside, stomping downing perky green blades of grass into ground made soft by thousands of raindrops before me. My vision was blurred through tears and despair and it swayed like an amateur video camera. The icy windless air burned against my face, but it wouldn't have made any difference to my lachrymosity had the sky been as blue as a blackbird's egg. Why is it always freezing cold when I want to write?

I wanted to break out my holy water there and then, finally exorcise and be rid of every one of them once and for all. I wanted to purge her right there and then; achieve the closure for which I've been yearning so long. But no, I still can't, and that's why I'm so woeful - so triste and despondent. For such non-reasons, I felt sad.

Sad? No. I resolve; not sad but just pathetic. I couldn't explain to myself quite why that particular ephemeron, the insignificant and meaningless time that we shared together continues to mean so much. And so, on New Year's Eve, I was standing outside by myself and crying.

I was crying because - because we could sing better songs than those.

Read the rest. Will the angst ever run out?Collapse )

Thought for the day

In some ways, there's something undeniably sad about seeing a fresh blanket of snow perfectly untouched by children's feet.

    mood: stupid
    choon: The Cure – Boys Don't Cry