Seamus

I will replay, wrapped up in my own mediocre neurosis, the following ghosts of an alternate universe. The romanticised notions of a down trodden past, and the ecstasy of pain, white washed and back logged. As though I was standing in a sudden down pour of rain for some idealistic reason that even I wasn’t fully aware of. This is the notion. This is the irony of a passive aggressive mind. That we are what we were before. I am my comfort zone of misunderstood youth. They’re my excuses and rationalizations. Smoking the same cigarette believing in it’s power when we had stubbed and discarded it’s substance long before. We’re the schema’s and sub-textual delusions of our existence. We’re not here. We’re living in the shadows of a memory. If only I’d had a better childhood, time at school, friends that understood me, never taken drugs, saved more money, stood up for myself, lost my virginity, stayed a virgin, kept the baby, masturbated less, masturbated more, drank more, forgot my inhibitions, kept my dignity, worked harder, got that job, moved out and realised that it is all this that has made me. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. The stench of bullshit, coming the from the mass individuals of a generation. The life experience that passes you by whilst you’re waiting for the film to start, or depending on your own level of arrogance of humanity, the cameras to roll. Self absorbed. Narcissism drinking from the same over flowing cup as potential. Poured by some passive aggressive in pass, muttering under the breath of civilisation, but never saying it out aloud. I hear the voices. It’s only today that I realise they have become my own. No longer my mother, or others, I dissect the meaning. I tear it from the remnants of where it used to lie in a box in the wardrobe and strip the packaging from it’s collectable status to see the cheap plastic inside for what it really is. I have the power, no one else. The catalyst inside me, building up to burn with regretful insurgence. I create the flames. I see the ghost, the little girl and the scared young woman. In the mirror, in windows and the eyes of those who meet my own. They are watching my footsteps walk the same corridors. Together we shrink from the passing faces of other people. As no one should see us, for then we would have to exist. 

Insular and morbidly fascinating at the same time. With it’s whitewashed views on social antiquity, and the multifaceted money making capacity of a 51 year old paedophile school teacher. Placed on page 7 of The Sun, scandalised for all of five minutes and replaced in the minds of men with the tanned breasts of a 19 year old model from Essex. I never want to eat Ginsters again, associating the taste and the discarded plastic with the unsettling feeling everything I do can only add to the world’s decay. Two minutes left of my break. Oven and dishwasher alarms hurrying me away from the crumpled newspaper. Back through the kitchen and into the throngs of many waiting expectant eyes. The eyes of those who have read The Sun and have thrown it on the car seat next to them with not a second thought to it’s contents. The frustration of not having seven pairs of arms, telepathy, the patience of Mohat Moghandi and the inability to move faster than the speed of light boils up my insides. No really, I am deeply apologetic for how I have wronged you so deeply with basic human evolutionary deficiency. Attitude adjustment forced upon me like the drowning of a town witch. I bite my tongue and purse my lips. I steam the milk and forget the presence of expectancy and become a human being once more. Forgive me for the coffee stained lids and the un-wiped tables. The fact that I can’t be in two places at once. I should be there to tie your shoelaces and wipe your arse in the mornings. I am forever trying to reverse the decay. To end the grey doubt in the minds of children who smile up at me from below the counter and contemplate the meaning of my presence in this world. Their world. I am here to make a difference and breathe the air with all it’s glorious impurities. I am milk stained and hot from the steam. You are the faceless and unending frustration of the day. You’re the Large Decaf skinny latte.

This may seem odd as i’ve just technically made a blog using Erin’s login and password details (I FEELZ LIKE A HACKER). I won’t be blogging on this site. EVER. I am simply doing my duty as a caring boyfriend by setting up a space for the thoughts and opinions of:

Erin Ring
23 Years Young
Journalism graduate from Staffordshire University
Living in Stafford



Likes:

A good read (Sons & Lovers - READ IT)
Writing
Drawing
Positive thinking, philosophies and ideologies

Dislikes:

Ronald Mcdonald living under a bed
Floating things
The closed-minded

I feel i should write more about Erin, though i think as this is her blog, most people who read it will get a view of her unique personality and opinions within her first few paragraphs. A mind like hers needs to be expressed constantly and this i feel is the perfect way to do it.

Sam