Days and Clichés

Well, I have finally accepted it. I can't punctuate. But that's all right- it'll just give subjectivity more leeway in whatever I write, as it'll be even less apparent what I'm prattling about. Like Mama Sartre said: "with a world turned outward, we cultivate our own subjectivity". And how our little world has turned outward. Or maybe it's the other way round, and Berkley go it right saying that we are trapped by it. Either way, subjectivity is an ideal you'd do well to pander to.
The story in the last post was meant to be a (badly punctuated) cliché- the little protagonist is so cool and different that he is just the same as everything he is terrified of. I hope there were some cringe worthy emo-esque bits. But anyway, ultimately he got over it, and hopefully realised he doesn't have to cling to his superiority like a despondent something-that-clings. We are all wonderful clichés and that's why they are brilliant- little floating islands in our sea of subjectivity.The whole thing was meant to be one silly, subjective contradiction.

Anyway, moving on. Or trying to stand still, rather. I'm not liking time. I've been getting horribly homesick, at first for things I remember; a song here, a picture there and I'm a yearning mess. It is true I have a brilliant subconscious, it's always on the repressive war path. I forget the bad quickly and find myself crawling all over my memories like a spider- and I want those days back! The other day I drove past my old house and stopped to see how the current inhabitants had changed the door, put a recycling bin outside, and had a bike instead of a car. EVILERS. I was a bit drunk and definitely should not have been driving; I was going somewhere in convoy with some friends and ran away back down memory lane, or Overton Drive actually. I sat still and parked up my car, a maniacal stalker, stalking something intangible and great. And then it all came rushing back, angry and panting gripping at my mind. I was never happy there but the way I see things now I could be, could I go back. I think that's the point. But then, when I think of nothing and lay back, eyes closed and wanting, the bad I'd made myself forget comes tearing back out of the mist, hideous leviathans, not threatening per se, but there and huge.

So I've began wanting things I haven't had yet, and I see them so vividly with my memory eye- leaning over a pier far away where everything is inoffensive in grey, greyer and white, and it's freezing too- I'm looking for Orcas. Or sitting in a beer garden, much older, it's sunny and I have a little girl called Anais Esmeralda Caruana Golder (I call her Nissy for short). Everything's wonderful in that moment in that world, filled with children's things and a young mother's love. Or driving across empty desert scenery, that is so barren it would make me feel jubilant in my complexity. I'm driving toward some danger, Yellowstone nature reserve maybe, in a rented mustang, waiting for sunset. There is a lot to look forward to yet. I have seen every one of those scenes, snatches out of everydays approaching cautiously from downwind. So I'm looking forward, looking back, a "pendulum soul" between the will and was. But as the days wriggle in and out of each other and I'm busy thinking of "then", I am still just defining myself by happenings. I don't even know what I want. Whether I want a snappy suit or a gypsy skirt, or some hideous hybrid, in preparation for what's to come. Whether I should take heart or take heed.
Nothing is ever going to make me happy if I'm always waiting for the next chapter to tell me what the book's about.