Part Four

I’ve realized recently though, with the help of my counselor, my editor, my dad, and my online friends, that I am good at talking. Whether it’s blagging a fiver from my dad, landing interviews and writing jobs that I’m completely under-qualified for, boldly attempting (although often failing) to chat up girls, or selling double glazing for Zenith - I can talk. I can lie.

Accepting this, I don’t feel my ego swelling or my heart sinking with the usual disapproving resentment of such arrogant self-aggrandizing. I feel proud.

I can do the things I want to do with this skill, such as it is. I can live on the continent; I can apply for jobs, chat up girls, sell my own personal brand and feel completely at ease with myself. Just the thought makes me feel happy. I don’t want to die when I imagine this, I want to live.

So it’s time to do it, I’ve found what might make me happy and so I’ll leave. I want to wake up when I want, sit in a quirky French café and write on my laptop. I want to harass the girl at the counter for her phone number in my broken French and smile even when she declines, and I want to blag my way into the biggest and best situations imaginable. Why would I do anything I don’t want to do? Because “life isn’t fair sometimes”? Bollocks, life can’t be summed up some second-rate quote from a straight-to-DVD drama; it’s too vast to comprehend and too small to waste.

Diary for a Visit

I have nowhere else to post this. God knows why a diary should be something that has to be posted somewhere, perhaps I just crave attention. Whatever the reason, here's today's post - my first official post.

The evening was setting in, but the June wind still carried the heat from the day as I looked up. The colours of the taped flowers were drained and blunted; the light wasn’t highlighting their brilliance and never would. With the bold force that was stolen from the flowers, the sound of broken glass crunching underfoot broke any silences.

I could see notes amongst the flowers, but I don’t remember what they said anymore. I read them in earnest but when my eyes looked away the words faded from memory.

The glass tried to glisten in the headlights of passing cars, but it was dulled by the solitary shadow of Big Tom. He stood away from us, looking from a different angle. His presence could never be ignored.

Tom stood tall, mature, Big. Arms folded, his eyes marbled and glazed while his mind raced and stopped simultaneously. He didn’t move. While my face was sticky from tears blown dry in the warm breeze, Tom’s was unchanged.

The group cried around me, some of the boys were comforting their girlfriends and some comforting each other. I stood alone, floating between groups before standing with Olivia.

I know Olivia least, but we hugged tightly for a moment between pulls on her cigarette. I’ve never known such sadness amongst adults; I’ve never seen my friends cry.