The words don’t really come as well as they should, or at least as well as I would like. Or prefer to.
Well here I am again pushing this shit out so hard I’ll soon be wiping it from my head and checking the tissue for blood.
I have plenty to report on – said the self – “Fuck off” said the Brain; it’s just I feel as though there is almost too much and ninety-percent of it is just as pointless as the next thing.
And I’m not saying that anything I’ve ever written has been amazingly relevant to anyone or anything. I wrote about shitting recently (Which was actually read quite a lot). So ya know. Whatever.
This isn’t a typical ‘topic’ blog to show future employers, it’s garbage I sometimes feel I need to share, for some reason. Weird right? I’m conflicted in writing, I’m not a ‘Writer’ but I write. I love and loathe the past-time.
With any pursuit or hobby, we pour ourselves into it as we should. Skateboarding for instance is one of my few physical outlets besides the occasional work out and cycling. It’s been what I’ve known on and off for over a decade. Since finishing University I crawled back to it desperately to catch me in my freefall.
The addiction and love for the sport was refuelled mid-air by the meeting of new friends at a brand new Skatepark. Back to throwing myself across, around concrete – blasting speeds through a bowl smiling, learning new tricks. Smiling.
The bruises and cuts. Swollen ankles and a fracture wrist, all self inflicted pains that never end when you skate as much as I have been. No time for rest or recovery.
For me, to be bored is risky. Really risky. I’ll end up doing something regrettable. Getting high all day doing nothing, drinking myself stupid or to sleep, ordering more Benzodiazepines for every single bored day I foresee ahead of me. Which is basically every day.
Being able to go out and skate is the last bastion of hope my brain has, it’s security protocol for keeping me in check. The only thing I can really be bothered to do even in my lowest of moods, which speaks volumes to me. Out of everything it’s the first thing I go to. I can now (thanks to the forward motion of cold to hot seasons and months) go and skate for hours and hours. Usually six or more until my legs can’t move anymore, the journey home is painful and exhausting. But I spent the day laughing and smiling with new people. Now I’m back in London I can do the same.
But once it’s done, I’m back with myself and my thoughts. Overriding my rationality.
And all I can do is pray that the body is exhausted and demands the brain to sleep, just to sleep. The next step is to wake up without my jaw feeling so tight, the taste of blood in my mouth and teeth marks around the sides of my tongue. If only I skated more in my dreams.
I don’t know what the point of this was. There it is. Flaking out at around 500 words again.
Fuck it. Mondays are shit, Tuesdays (my payday, weekly motherfucker) are better. Because then I can have weed, beer and leave the house knowing I have access to both of these things. Also food, food is fantastic. – Good luck today. Pleb xox