an outlet for the indulgent musings of a woebegone ailurophile

Time to Get Gone

Honestly, its days like these, when not only the oppressive cloud covered sky, but seemingly the whole world is tinged with a damp grey, that I feel totally and utterly useless. It’s said that if you start the day either the wrong or the right way, that it’ll continue in a similar vein of positive events and happy feelings, or you’ll go about with a metaphorical (in this particular instance also literal) grey cloud over your head. Clearly, today, the latter is the case. All I want is for all the world to leave me be, to stop constantly fucking questioning me about things that are of no real significance to life as it is happening now, and to realise that the resentful face that reads ‘fuck off and leave me alone’ means business. I’ve had enough of people, call me a misanthropist all you like for there is more than one ounce of truth in it, and of my life as it currently stands. It’s time for me to move on, get up and get gone, and that is just what I plan to do this year.


Of course I still miss you. I miss your presence every single day, whether that happens to be a day I dwell on your absence or absentmindedly observe it. When I build up the courage to look back at photos of you, it seems suddenly absurd that you’re not here in the very same room with me, as though you’ve only been gone a short while. I can remember every inch of your handsome, handsome face and how you loved me back when that was just what I needed. You knew when to be there, and that’s what I miss most, because no one else quite gets it like you did. I shall never forget you, for I loved you first. Rest in peace wherever you are, beautiful baby – L.

I saw a chapel …

I saw a chapel all of gold
That none did dare to enter in;
And many weeping stood without,
Weeping, mourning, worshipping.

I saw a serpent rise between
The white pillars of the foor,
And he forc’d & forc’d & forc’d –
Down the golden hinges tore,

And along the pavement sweet,
Set with pearls & rubies bright,
All his slimy length he drew,
Till upon the altar white

Vomiting his poison out
On the bread & on the wine.
So I turn’d into a sty
And laid me down among the swine.

– from Blake’s Notebook

Never lend book…

Never lend books, for no one ever returns them; the only books I have in my library are books that other folks have lent me.” – Anatole France

Boredom and Blake

I’m undecided as to whether William Blake is a genius, or merely a revolutionary of his time, surviving off of his long-uttered name. In fact, his poetry other than that of the Songs of Innocence and Experience, unequivocally his most famous collection, I really do enjoy. Perhaps it’s because these poems have been tinged by the harsh and tactless light of exams and syllabi (yes, google informs me that is the correct plural). So, rather than finding true beauty in their simplicity… I find myself uninspired, and rather fed up of lambs and children and ‘the sympathy they evoke’. Damn you to hell, A-levels.


Why is it so difficult to begin to write? Plucking one thought from the hundreds swirling around the container of consciousness and absurdities known to us as ‘the mind’, and transferring it to paper, presents itself an insurmountable task. The Latin word for the mind – ‘animus’, has numerous other translations – ‘spirit’, ‘soul’, ‘pride’, ‘courage’.. only further emphasising its intangibility. As Anselm argued, something cannot be truly great, it cannot reach it’s full potential until it also exists ‘in re’. Take a painter, one who can conceive of a masterpiece, can visualise it with his mind’s eye (another elusive concept), it is not a masterpiece in any form until he has transferred this image to canvas. It is only at this stage that others can appreciate it, can decide for themselves whether it truly is it a masterpiece or not. Surely then, we are equating the value of something with the appreciation or simply acknowledgement of others. I would like to believe that this is not the case for writing, that I am writing this without going so far as to hope someone will see or care to read it, rather so that I can know that this one thought is now a tangible thing that I can read back (and undoubtedly despise) for myself, at least as tangible as anything can be in the mysterious void of cyberspace.. The point is to write – to start writing, and to keep at it.

The first noble truth…

The first noble truth is that most people don’t even care that you’re alive. Embrace this my friends, for it is true freedom. The world is vast and you are small, and therefore you may do as you wish and cast your thoughts of those who dislike it to the side. – Unknown