In this strange state of affairs where bohemia helps us ignore the great intangible house of cards that somehow keeps billions of us fed
In my own little world, made up of success after success and **** up after **** up, there's a barrier that stays the course whatever roof I'm under
While I don't attach my creativity to it anymore, it occupies the same space, creating irrational from the rational, developing natural disorder
Hollowing out the moment so I can feel it as a poison later, a fantasy of who I should of been
But despite this.. old parasite I still hold onto my optimism, still build and learn and deconstruct and can see my success in a fruit that tastes so ******* good

I don't like who it makes me, I don't like the waste of the good times, the emotional challenge it sets me, the self involved ******* who doesn't know his own mind well enough to not have the next drink or to get away from the screen for that extra hour
But.. its something that shapes who I am, and I guess I can thank for creating the desire to improve and understand the context of every cell and mental directive
I just.. its coming clear that there is a permanence attached to this, and a mystery that needs solving, habits that need changing
And if I ever want to succeed in that unattainable sense of zen I'm so ******* desperate for, or at least close enough for long enough to let someone I love know why they should feel the same way

I need to accept the uncomfortable truth of the disorder
I need to let it shape my life, to keep in mind, to take life in the context of it
And accept that I'm not done with my struggles to be the man I want to be
I guess we never are

But.. if my art is so obvious to me, if my profession is a definite thing
If the people around spark mutual smiles and every now and then a cute one wanders over for a talk despite the unwritten rules saying she shouldn't
If everything else in life can be perceived and solved
Then this can become beatable, manageable

And maybe, just maybe
I'll get a chance to really relax

Purpose is always a strange one
A concept that can be subjective, malleable, difficult to attain or even define
Some of us let the institutions, the societal and the familial help define it, I know I have
Some of us alter our brain chemistry, travel to new places or dive into bohemia in pursuit of it, or maybe to escape from it
Others just let themselves build purpose out of emotion, personality, english or maths, political affiliation, talents and passions
The lucky ***** who can take the abstract phantom, as familiar as the inconceivable cells that form us, and create something real and identity defining

I hope to count myself among them, picking my pursuits and examining my psychology to put myself in the right direction
I guess my purpose has been one of retribution and self examination, one which I am proud to succeed in small ways in creating
Clearing out the hoarder's den of emotional and slightly Freudian interconnection bursting uncomfortably behind my eyes
And rebuilding, the work a combination of investigation and trial and error, gradually developing a man I didn't need to hate anymore

Now I speak to you through a portrait that isn't for sale, allowing me free reign over the paints
But.. forgive me if I feel as though my journey is coming to fruition at a bad time for the world around me, a sod's ******* law that leaves a bitter taste
And forgive me if on this journey, that I realise the repression from previous years, what I see as a valid anger for enemies brief and bashful or longer present and more traitorous
An anger that in the true macro context of a global battlefield and an era of apathy and division, is irrelevant and selfish
But when someone you love ***** you over, and you know they are out there giving into a weak parasitic nature that you despise, and becoming less of the image of them you loved when you could stand the ******* sight of them
I feel like I have the right to be angry, and that anger has become a preoccupation, but.. education has taught me perspective, and my pursuit of purpose has taught me what's important - my responsibility to enjoy life and continue passed this distracting anger

I am not homeless, I am not ill, I am not under threat
I do not live in the various definitions of slavery my brothers, and more so my sisters are exposed to
I do not fear death, a fear which spreads validly throughout the global war zone, as the powerful find new and interesting ways to give up their humanity
I do not sit in the streets uncomfortable from the cold surrounded by the nicest shops unable to buy something to eat

My life is on an upward momentum and each step I take and each new friend I find reminds me that it might just be worth it
Reminds that my pursuit of purpose, while slightly less tangible than that of the doctor with a patient or the soldier with a mission, takes precedent
Contentment and health, writing the story and learning the trade, contributing both socially and through hard graft to a company I don't have any ethical issue with
And diving headlong into bohemian self indulgence and social revelry
Whilst gradually constructing a self image that can actually encourage a smile out of me
I feel like for the first time I'm doing life right

So while I may have days where the air tastes bitter, where my psychology fails at helping maintain my preferable way of being seen
And days when it's just a bit ****
I feel like I have purpose, a direction and decent image of myself
So I remember to be grateful, quit my ******* and keep going

So here I am, despite every external and internal embodiment of the contrary
My goals are being built upon and driven towards, developing tangibility cell by cell
Despite my hollow self esteem associated, they continue somehow
Which is good I suppose. I push and push and results formulate slowly across the canvas, gradually taking shape.

Forgive me if I feel like a fraud though.

Girls, old and new come to mind
I look at a photo of the first one, see a very idealistic vision, she is empowered by the life she has constructed. It makes me smile for some reason, maybe I really have let go, because.. it makes me really happy to see her married and succeeding with her little goal. She was insanity for me at one point, a fantastical representation made of old thoughts and new unreal photos, made hollow flesh through text on a screen. I was pain for her when we lived and loved together, as the impulsive decision of "us" stopped my life. She was pain for me when I left, as I sat alone and craved the fantasy of the love I once had. We grew up together, and tore each other apart on the way to adulthood.

"I'm always sorry love."

The second one well
She's just done what I did with studying, come out in to the big wide world, losing the backing of an institution. She seems surrounded by others, indulging in it, good for her. Annoys me how gorgeous her identity is, she is defined by an intelligent approach to life, a critical mind kicking *** and yet still.. humble.
I felt comfortable around her, I didn't want to gamble the brief sense of on the level for something adventurous. Sometimes I despise my lack of back bone, sometimes I perceive my talent for alienation as a factor. But I think it was more that once I tried, we could never get back to that level of conversation we enjoyed with a few drinks.
I still have her on the social network, but with the few times we met, I fear it's too late, and that she was never that interested anyway.
I hope I send her a drunken message inviting her for coffee though.

"You're awesome, I hope you know that."

The last well.. she was my recent fling. A day of intense naked closeness and getting to know one another. Lots of talking, lots of ***. She knows her bubble, which was.. superficial I fear. She was into a guy before she met me. I.. gave her my preoccupation and overwhelmed myself, an intense sense of distrust which was too early to be appropriate. I don't think she saw it through text on a screen, which is all she was to me in the end. She was nice though, honest and giving, but our conversation was always just.. trying to give each other what we weren't sure we wanted. I gave her advice at the end, new thoughts from old habits, the importance of getting that thing that feels right, in the right existential circumstances, which can be a key you need.

"Best of luck."

As I get back again to my routine, my begrudged solitude and lack of motivation, I hope that I can find someone one day who will fulfil the simple fantasy, a girl, or guy, who will wake up next to me, persuade a natural smile out of me, slap me in the face,

and say "Keep Going. :)"

Failing that, there's always tea and good work to be done.

So..
I wander back into this old room, rubbing fingertips against nostalgic surfaces and sliding them against the coloured objects
Trying to pull out the representation within them
Trying to recreate the fantasies of a younger self
Tested by their potential hollow nature, by the cabin fever creeping through skin to nerve, by the idea that I can't quite find the balance
Between a healthy optimism, a self involved day dream of self, and a destructive need to deconstruct absolutely every aspect of my interaction with others, and avoid giving in to the claustrophobic boxes of old

I wonder when I do well, am I just satisfying a need at the expense of others?
Am I ignoring what matters, am I being lazy?
I wonder when I do badly, where in the massive intense web of social deconstruction, where does the truth lie amongst such burning over analysis?
Am I as invisible in my armour during the anxiety as I am so desperate to believe?

Then.. I go to other groups I'm sure about, coast through the conversation with a distance, wondering why the **** irrational obsession became so pure
But that's just the dull day to day, I'll keep up.

As the rains and winds beat hard against our windows and coats
As our brothers from our home back in Africa suffer from capitalism's imposition of ignorance on top of nature's cruel power at a molecular level
And maybe suffer a bit because of their own sin, but.. I'm not one to judge, my lineage tarnished with the ****** backs of other cultures
As this world of ours spreads and burns outward, I wonder if I'm going the right way.

I let doubt rush shakes from my hands, and let emotion fuel words that I have no other place to say, no ears that have any ******* right to hear them

I wonder if the universe breaks my toys and soaks my clothes for a reason, or if I'm just another self important ***** in a viral infection of self important ****** consuming their way to a dissatisfied 40th birthday, or to a drowning at 30 once the climate scientists are proven right

Or if those quotes and photos with dubious association are true in their assertion that no one lives forever, so make something that does?

I give in to self indulgence, grow tired from my work, and tell everybody about the projects I'm too lazy, too distracted, too busy consuming to produce.
Maybe I've got time.. maybe I'm too ******* myself
Maybe I need to get my ******* act together, because I could be murdered tomorrow.

Every now and then though.. I go through the motions again
Look behind me, look into me, and at the macro from a distance that isn't smudged by emotion or cracked apart by the imposition of doubt
And for a while I'm reminded that I've come a long way
And whether I drown tomorrow while the climate scientists watch in boats in a hollow victory of correctness
Or continue my day quiet as my anxiety suppressing deconstruction of socialisation tells me is advisable
There's part of me remembers the empowerment and soul defining principle taken from the rise from rock bottom
It lets me know that fulfilment is out there, and that a loving optimism is the only way I have any right of living
So whether I keep losing the fight with the bitter, I keep getting up for another beating
And for those days when the bitter goes down
I can smile that warm smile again

As the existential transition is signed and stamped and photographed for our fathers
My little journey a little later than others, an adherence to the structure sure, but where else will we learn
As the papers are handed in, the informal formalities hit home with just enough liquor
And we are torn between insecurity and empowerment
I notice among the bread and beer and bullshitting banter
One of the girls is looking my way a little longer

Her mind draws me in to a natural respect, an intelligence clearly and frankly explored
It is a source of comedy, a source of conversation, and for me I'd be lying if not a source of attraction
Naturally her appearance doesn't hurt the situation, a compliment of warm  smiles and intense colour coupled with an honest sense of self
And a sleek silhouette to hold it in

One thing this town has taught me, by both strangers and the self
It doesn't take much to be ****
The real goal is constructed from the subtle implication of your own taste
That you find that someone who is sexually and socially engaging
And who could add more than trivial ******* to your life
Someone who compliments and compares to you, reconstructing the familiar to something more rewarding

That is not to say *** is pointless
But if you find that right one who acts as your muse, *** is another exploration of that two way empowerment
Clothed and carrying on, you can talk out the simple and fantastical, defining direction as companions who find each other's presence a motivating reassurance
And in the sweat and the snog, after the spontaneous first **** frees you, you can start to suggest new tests of sensuality and mindfucking loveliness

I wonder if all those looks mean what I feel they mean
That she respects me in a way I haven't given her openness for, that I let those compliments go deeper than rain on the wind shield
That all the natural conversation is something for which I should let go of all the defensiveness that has kept me so comfortable in these years of functional formality
That maybe I should take a chance on this one, that cute one standing tall on her identity, in the same time of transition as me
But with less lessons behind her concreting her certainty

Maybe it's worth risking that bitter old ******* rejection just one more time
Maybe I should ask her if there's something
In
That
Really
Inviting
Look.

Disdain is developing for these boxes
Where interaction is eased but distanced and disconnected
Losing context and adding overthought
The to and fro becomes unhealthy in its uneven pacing, where our own little bubbles manifest in useless and counterproductive day dreams

This text technology isn't without its merits, if we need someone we can get hold of them quickly, if we need information we are well supplied
But for some, or.. to be frank, for me,  the information overload is deconstructing my confidence and pressurising my sense of self
A battle I fight against with fresh air, exercise and my continued relationship with pleasure
As well as the projects and positions that I pursue, the passions and paychecks, an effort about to hit full force now I'm graduating into the hostile capitalist way of things

I worry what this overdose of gratification does to me, but those that aren't self conscious of themselves under the techno-pressure worry me more
Because they are caught, fulfilled by a mundane medium that the screens provide, some adding the taste of green to exacerbate their passivity
While their lives aren't my problem, I feel for idiots, and count myself among them to whatever extent

Again I am reminded though, as my words spread naturally and find intellectual soil to dig down towards
As confident as I am of my optimism and the direction it describes
I am so very ******* fallable, and these screens and trying to connect with people through them is a process that doesn't quite seem right
That's not to say I won't be surrounded by the deceptive ******* tomorrow, in that mundane medium of 'social' existence
But it'll be the boxes of text that bug my sense of tangibility
and the efforts to shake off the cabin fever that will be most rewarding

These moans culminate in that simple little appreciation of those old norms
That no matter how incredibly interconnected our technology allows us to be
Those piles of text are a poor ******* substitute for the eye contact and the smile
So make sure you go out and find some

These are odd times for us, whether we can perceive it or not
It may be that we know but knowing isn't quite as tangible an experience as we'd like

We live as overwhelmed individuals in a layered psychological and cellular construction
Or, be it better or worse, solitary insecurity clusters ignoring screen after screen
Electronics spreading root throughout our air, ground, and following us around
Reality a strange blur between the definite, clear sober now and the insistent, ageless imposition of imagery
Of pixels and posters and places we've never been
Of people that distort our perceptions, degrade our emotions, and misinform us with too many voices
Our entertainment often becoming an intellectual and perceptual tranquiliser
Or a place to inhabit and let go, when the pressures of economic stability and social conscription to labour need to be forgotten, if only for a while

I still hold onto the optimism though
I hold onto it because I have to, because I want to, because I believe in it
It is my abstract fuel, a state of mind that every now and then gives me the pick me up to plod on
The internal negativity clawing at shins reconstructed as a test of masculinity, negativity from the world a test of solidarity
I am not infallible, I move slower sometimes, get lost sometimes, can't quite make it tangible and structured sometimes
I am reminded that I'm not recession proof, that I'm still the system's ***** and sometimes my buttocks aren't raised quite high enough
But..

I keep going. Like we all do. I try to let it exemplify myself a bit more than most, but..

If I can make that girl thank me,
that guy give me a smirk,
that project go a little faster,
that day smell and feel nicer
and that anxious night seem a little more transparent

Through something as simple as trying to be optimistic and mindful of the self
I guess there's something to keeping your chin up