Friday
May 8, 1998
Balaclava

Dammnit everything is low key these days.

The characteristic burnt taste of workplace coffee, the slow hours whiled away at mindless busiwork tasks. Work of my own to attend to, time for that later. 7am Sunday morning I'll get to my own.

Find that I don't know much about myself these days. My own thoughts, actions and feelings are hazed, clouded over. Inaccessible to me. The oft visiting feeling of being alone and lost, existing on the merest hint of contact with others, gives a sense of disjointed restless existence.

Want a life worth something. Want a life that gives something. Want to be part of something, someone. Want not to be drifting.

Can see in my minds eye, the clearest vision of what it feels like to be me. Eyes closed, the dark blue of the night, a light shines in, bright, from a crack somewhere. Damp, dank sounds as water runs down the walls, and pools at my feet. The briney smell of sea and sand, freesh in my nose. Legs heavy as they struggle through the heavy water and resistance, fear and fatigue. Heart beats fast as the rushing, confining, constricting space feels too small to contain me. Want to sit and stop here. But the dank dark clanging of rising water pushes me forward.

Using my gills to navigate.

that's Died Pretty's new album I think.

For My Listening Pleasure
Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds
The Boatman's Call