Wednesday, 10th January 2007

I don't know how well your memory serves you, but mine serves me loyally like a limpid sidekick in the thickest of times. This time and the tens of other that are, could be, have been and will be. I'm sure of it. In the present, for that is where all happens to one, I can conjure an incalculable, inestimable array of cloud-bordered memories and assign them, without doubt, to your name. In it's irony, where doubt was the factor and motive, alongside insecurity, that drove me to say all three of the hurtful and tearful comments at the end of our labelled, part-time, flowered of many walls, agreement, I now feel washed of it with you, and hence, want you to be the reciever of it's ample present outcomes, in repentance and repayment for a more shadowed past.

Writing this has settled and silenced the first ever sneezing fit that i've ever had in my life. A sign? Only you would know.

The fleeting sound of silence would fit far more impressively in this blog entry, however, i'll fight my ground a little longer. My overwhelmed mind is leaking at it's corners, irrepressible unfortunately because of the overload of links, rivers, bridges and commitments of my thoughts to certain aspects of my life. When something profound (good or bad) impacts on a life, like a rain of meteors in your favourite eastern settlement, you can't help neglect so much of what seemed carved in stone to your past. Whether you still consider such routines, conversations, obligations or past-times of urging and utter importance to your life then, now, in the times to come, it's irrelevant. Is it? A future as irrevocable as the past; an answer to void my question. In the past two weeks, I've not had more than four or so nights in my own bed, yet rest is the immediate outlook of someone trying to recover, a priority of the upmost. Relevancy of my priorities has become shot however, as shot as the nerve endings in my fingers atleast, and out of my three favourite things (I'm really not the favourist type), sleeping has taken the deepest hinderance. The ever pressing and toxic character of chemotherapy is of a negative one ofcourse, but so incredibly sly, in the present. It constantly reminds the main character of fatigue and is purposefully ignorant of the pace the main character has had to atone to so that the main character can cope taking more aspects of the main character's life, into the main character's stride. Not a tradgedy, please, I know, not incomparison to some of those to my knowledge, but a sly and nagging needle in my side, preventing me from clearly laying out thoughts when thinking and when writing.

In my family there is the most distinct memory of an occasion, shared by a very close family, which outlines the direction from which nearly all problems have come to arise at us. My eldest brother, Christopher, no more than the tender age of eight or nine, standing certainly no taller than four-and-a-half feet tall, ended up on the floor. We were taking a Mitchell-Price walk in Friston Forest, when eldest, dearest, ran head first, obviously face turned, into a nine year old's head-height pain barrier, he decked straight to the pine-stricken, mossy and muddy earth. A problem. As far as I know, every single one of my immediate relations always has, since, had all their pain dealt to them from the direction they least expect to face. I suppose the only remarkable exception of this would be when mischievously close friend Lloyd, my middle-elder brother Daniel, and myself, stood showdown with a huge cowpat on another one of our common, weekly, Mitchell-Price walks. Even after extensive birdviewing of our target from up a local tree (the pure fascination glowing in the eyes of all three of us obviously), Lloydus and Daniel decided to find the biggest and just-carryable rock in-sight and pledge it right into our little fly-fiended friend, on the count of three. Between us, all again facing our fate, as we threw it, it was I, youngest, and only I, eye, that recieved body and face the rawness of that suprisingly still ripe target, in it's wet form. I'll be the first to state, the smiles on both of my immaculately clean companion's faces, was no consolation, at all, for the rune effect that pile has had on my day, and life to this date, and on a certain box of tissues at the time most likely.

Astair. If ever a sore memory can become of use, it's when your anticipating self-inflicted pain. I'll bare the freshness of that pat in my mind as I inject myself with a somewhat simple GCSF injection into my abdomen starting later today. Today being, after I resign and eventually retire to bed and then regain conciousness ofcourse. A wish. May the repair of my current infirmity be as well supported as the recovery from the short story above, and many other experiences on walks. My thoughts go to Jackie and Victor on that.

There's a slightly favoured metaphor shared between me and a girl that I feel, deserves this space here. Timely or not, I care not. I once said to a girl, whom I earlier teased with the label of the upmost wallflower, that, thinking was like a rocking chair; It gives you something to do, but doesn't get you anywhere. It just so turns out that this girl is the sole person of who I dedicate most of these writings too, in my mind. The same girl, who can't take a compliment for love nor money, well maybe money, who hugely influences my life in the most profound ways and has supported me over the recent struggle that is. Still does. This girl replied to me that she rocks in a chair, not because she wants to get somewhere, but precisely because she wants to dwell and cover the same ground again and again, neutralising her thoughts, giving her the chance to step back and then, while recovering the same ground for the millioneth time, start going deeper (and therefore inevitably further) than she thought possible. Leap your bar. This response and your many other, direct and frank responses have silenced me as equally as The Garden of Forking Paths, and then adding it's millions of time continuums aswell. Although this one paragraph isn't written baring my usual reader in-mind, the last sentance, discluding this one, does.

There's hair all over my keyboard and my rocking chair must have a creek because, as you all know, I can't sleep. I have one apology before I try again and slink off as a content old man to my bed, and that is to my reader. Being the amateur and so acutely yet openly inspired writer that I am, I haven't yet learnt to write without drafting in the inspiration of ample authors, hundreds of films, books and people into my words. You witnessed this in the last paragraph and may scold or even caulderise me the next time I do it so horsely. Sorry.

Dreamsworth. I'm in relatively good health (for those of you who wonder, not my usual reader, seeing as my entries are never anything further than a ramble and lack of information of what you really come here to read about) and bid you accept my state worthy of your cloudy realm in the next hour or i'll end up paying for it later today.

S.