They called me Mr. Glass

Hot buttered toast is the ultimate in foods to drag the imagination into overload. I suddenly feel deep regret that I have eaten it, because I was just about to go to bed and now my brain is full of words once more. They itch and scratch, wanting to get out. They keep me awake at night. Either that or the high dosages of caffeine that the average student ingests daily. I prefer the former. It feels more artistic. *smiles*

My speakers have packed up again. It's starting to get a right pain. I have to keep waggling the wires all the time to get noise. Break in the cable it seems.

The room around me is dark, enclosing me in a cucoon of dim glow from the monitor. I love the way it feels like you're hiding away when it's dark. Wrapping up in duvet improves the effect of course, especially due to the nights getting colder. It's really weird, I'm starting to feel more and more like I am writing to an audience rather than random spoutings for my own benefit. Stop it. Stop it now.

The fear has ebbed now. That weird fear that prevented me from feeling happy for many weeks. I feel things are settled. Well, as settled as they can possibly be.

I feel my toes are slowly getting colder as the night draws on and the warmth of the day is slowly starting to dissapate into the amber street light glow. This is crazy, my mind is full of words. Full of words that are so mixed together they don't make sense, like Bruce Nolan in Bruce Almighty. WOW! IS IT GETTING LOUD IN HERE!

The gentle buzz of the fans are calming. I've really got to invest in a chair. I'm probably going to get a flat behind if I keep sitting on my case every time I want to use the computer. No wonder I've been spending a minute amount of time in the house.

I've really got to get some excercise. I feel not a whole lot better than last month, when I promised myself I would go to the Gym. Oh, how promises take a tumble when they are inside your head. Promises to other people are different, because you are expected by somebody else to carry out that promise. When it's in your head, you only have a little voice nagging you all day.

I'm still recovering slowly after John Peel's death. It's a shock, and I don't think it's truly sunk in that he's gone. As I joked to Dan the other night: 'Let's celebrate his memory by getting a turntable, buying an obscure record and then playing it at the wrong speed.'

No-one should be afraid of death, but equally no-one should be afraid of life. As everyone always tells you 'you have to live your life to the full and the way you want to'. I like the principle of: Do what you want to do, because tomorrow you could be hit by a bus and then that'll be the end of your life. All that'll happen is wherever you end up, you'll be saying to yourself 'Oh, I wish I'd done that.' It's too late, get over it.

I like that principle. It's good and it works. It's just a shame I can't live up to my own expectations. I procrastinate. I don't make the most of my life. I hate myself for it. The rain is starting to blow at the window. I shiver at the concept of the cold wet day that the sound will generate for tomorrow by it's mere presence at this moment in time. I can feel the grey clouds looming above, even though I don't even have my curtains open. Sensory perception and all that jazz. The sound of the rain blowing against the window is an 'earcon' for greyness, cold, windy, damp, and above all, sodden. The world is a crisp pile of cartridge paper and the rain will turn it into a damp, soggy mess. The writing made up of signposts and graffiti, the coffee stains are of leaf-mulch, and the lines are just the tears and rips caused by everyday life. The rain will turn it all into a pulp of dark mush, where the lines are blurred, the coffee washes away down into the drains, the graffiti remains however, much like permanent marker, and will still remain when the pages dry into the warped configuration of the world. Still legible, but altogether more difficult.

But as they say, tomorrow's another day. Yes, another day less for you to exist. Make your mark, otherwise you'll be washing away with the coffee and the stains when your pages float away.

'Punk is not dead, it's merely decaying where it stands' - Adapted from t-shirt slogan

Emptiness is a fearful thing. That will to do something creative, only not having the ideas to do it. It's taunted me since the start of this whole period of rambling, and it still does to this day. Blankness hits me wave upon wave like I'm a tiny fishing boat caught in a tsunami in the Pacific. As always, the tiredness hits me second, like the swell of a thousand sleep-filled nights crashing down on me, forcing me to join them. I don't see the point of sleep anymore. I fall asleep tired, I wake up tired, I'm late because I sleep. Maybe I shouldn't sleep, maybe insomnia is the cure to all my problems....

Nah, don't be daft. Insomnia, though it may solve problems shorthand, it has future consequences. Consequences my brain doesn't want to comprehend right now.

I like the way these ramblings are starting to go. They feel less like a log of my life (which the average diary tries to keep track of; I have enough hassle keeping track of my life still being lived, let alone having to recall what happened in my day to a printed word. If something happens that is of deadly importance, I'll write it down. Otherwise, I feel it becomes another document in my increasing messes of paper.

My mental chaos I feel is expanding out from my being into this room. As we speak, chaos reigns. The bed is unhappy being chained together with sheets, and spends the majority of it's existance wriggling out of it's cream pyjamas, exposing it's nakedness to all who come by. It's like the man in the nursing home who spends the majority of his caged life trying to throw off the shackles of the nurses' society; a hippy who feels that expressionism is the way to go, his brain addled with the chemicals he feasted upon for the majority of his life until he now no longer knows reality from his own twisted perspective on things.

Yes, that's what my bed is like. It's spent too many years being a student-digs bed and has become addled on marijuana fumes and now things going 'au naturelle' is the way to go. Or it could be the matress being to thick. Hmm.....

I love the way that society has made anarchy (in British terms) a fashion statement. No longer do people dress punk to be anti-politics, anti-war, anti-style. They dress punk as purely a 'scoiety telling me what to do' thing, a niche market which fashion has written the textbook for, filling our screens with formulaic angsty teenagers and teams of manufactured rock bands. It's so ironic.

I don't know what to do with my life anymore. It's a shame. I once felt I didn't know what to do with my life, next I formulated ideas and future plans, but now that world feels further away than ever.

I think I'd better start sleeping, the perfect drug to life. Otherwise, I won't get up for my lectures. So goodnight world once more. See you on the other side.








*zzz*

It's kicking in. I can feel it.

The sickness is coming, the disease. It's in me right now and there's nothing I can do. Why today? Why of all days is an illness deciding to manifest itself in me. My frame wants to vomit, but I do not. The mind is being seperated from the body in a way. I still feel in control, but yet I feel completely out of control.
My mind is full of images. Photographs, paintings, art. Not my own, but art from books, papers, magazines, advertising. It's reminding me I should be somewhere else. Doing something else. Thinking about it deteriorates my condition. I hate the way that I cannot think of anything else. I want to sleep, hide from the world right now. Pretend I'm not here so people can't see me.
I'm glad I'm having this mid-term crisis right at the start of it in a way. It's gets my fear, my inadequacies as a student out the way. I wish sometimes that it didn't affect me like this. I understand now that the sickness, the fear, the prickling sensation in the back of my neck, the shivering, the anguish and the depression are all one and the same.
I'm starting to notice that my mind is slowly becoming less like my own. I'm changing mentally. I'll read these passages back and be able to remember what I was feeling, and yet people will struggle to comprehend it. Oh god, I'm becoming one of them.... I'm becoming an art student.
I feel that if I let myself go and be changed, then I fear I'll start seeing the world differently. That I'll start hanging round in trendy arty places, start discussing what writers were thinking when they wrote a certain passage in a book and why, etc. etc. blah blah blah.
The colour printer apparently has 'FIERY' as a fault. Should that be 'FIREY'? If so, I fear for my safety as I do not want to be printing something and then a jet of flame gets produced.
I'm still feeling like I have a form of food poisoning. Maybe it is that. *dies*

Nah, maybe not *alives*
I'm feeling no better. I hope that Chrissey's OK. She sounded like she was in a huge amount of pain. I just hope that there's nothing wrong. Oh well.

The boredom is setting in.

Over the past few days, I have been trying (with great effort) to make music. The trouble is, I can't get a good basis for the noise. A starting point, a reference node, a chaos piece.
My music of previous has been formulaic, repetitive, *dull*. I want a change. I just want to be creative. My brain yearns for something to do, it's weird. I just want to do something that makes me happy, content, etc.

I should buy a chair. The floor is rather uncomfortable to sit upon, and I'm sure it's playing hell with my neck. Trouble is, the bed is too far away for me to read the screen properly.

Oh wait, I can just change the resolution to make words bigger. Aah, that's a bit better. :) I wish this bed cover would stay on, it's getting annoying. This room is annoying. The lack of internet is annoying, the lack of chair is annoying, the lack of happiness is annoying. Why do I feel annoyed all of a sudden? Lack of sugar possibly. Coke is required.

Things aren't flowing as well as they once did. Money is an issue for the first time in my student life. Once my loan clears, I'll be happier. I wish I hadn't lost that cheque. It's probably somewhere in this room. I need to decorate this place, maybe I should be doing that rather than wasting my time sitting here splurging out my mind onto a white screen. I'll do it tomorrow. No lectures, plenty of time. Get up early, that's the plan. I won't though. I have this tendency to snooze until I need to get up. Snooze. What a perculiar word. One of those words which doesn't look like English. Maybe it's an Americanism. Maybe in the UK it should be called Snoose. No, that doesn't look right either. My mouse is flashing, it's starting to bug me. *sigh*. Maybe I should lay back and thing of nothing. Yes, nothing is good.







Will I ever use that fan? It's the wrong weather, surely?
I'll stick it on anyway, circulate the air.
Christ, it's noisy. Refreshing though.... brrrrrr....... *shiver*
Off again, I suppose.
Hmm... reverse. That's better. Not cold, just refreshing. That sounds like an advert for that old drink... "Something Ice". What was it? Never mind, it'll come back to me. Mentholly goodness. That's it, a reverse fan is like menthol. Not cold, but refreshing.
Hmmm, chewing gum is a good idea. I've got some somewhere.
"Chew on this...", how hilarious (*fake mental laugh*). Nice gum though. Shame it loses it's flavour so quickly. No wonder they usually come foil wrapped. 12:13. No, wait. 23:31. I should really change that clock. I miss the internet. I think I have withdrawl symptoms. No wonder I've been chomping on mints for weeks! Ahh, there goes the chewing gum flavour. Damn. Oh well, I'll keep chewing anyway, as I have nowhere to put it right now. Must get a bin soon. It would reduce the oodles of crap on my floor.

I miss Chrissey too much. I ache for her every day. Twice as much when I see a Couple. Every beautiful girl who passes by makes me think of her. Her smile, her eyes, her. I must have some sort of locking device when it comes to women. I could not cheat on her even if I tried. It makes me happy in a way, prevents me from doing something stupid that I would regret. Even when drunk, the lock is still in effect. Thanks brain. *Your brain thanks you*.

I need to tidy (as always). I need to clean the house up. I need to work out what to make for food this weekend. Hmm.

emie. awia upside down. Like Sega backwards in ageS. Upside down ebaZ. No wait, S upside down is still S. So to ebaS. Hmm, E-Bass. Fishing sim. Or music prog. *shrug*

This bed is comfy. Maybe sleep is a good idea. Tiredness is weird. I don't understand it.

Read back. So mixed up my mind is. Tossing and turning as if it wants to do something but doesn't know yet and so instead just wants sleep. Ampersands are weird. Oxymorons are people obsessed with spot cleansers. My window is covered in condensation.

What are SSH-keys? Research starts now. Whatever it is, that Termisoc Root hacker seems to be manipulating them. Who knows...? Soundcard not making sounds. Reboot.

*system rebooted 23:55*