On A Stair To A Flat in Camden
On A Stair To A Flat in Camden
Looking for love and couldn’t enjoy myself with the friends I’d found making music with myself singing songs of idealizations and romantic fixations yeah it all sucked anyway and they say it happens when you least expect it but I’m always watching my walk and being too damn careful with my lipstick….It’s so full of noise and smells in London and my snot is black thought I had forgotten all the great tastes to have but really you know I just wanted them back thinking of living large in a really small car think I’ll get back to Canada and just hide myself in a parka and galoshes and forget about loving true and good only once cause once never is enough but it’s all you need to fuck you up. Not even waiting on a stair to a flat in Camden gives me solace for a life I thought I had found but this week is best forgotten. This week is best forgotten. Fuck, I’m an asshole for finding the most beautiful man ugly in his mannerisms we expect too much. Could we strip ourselves of our hair and our watches say that style is timeless Yeah, this week is better forgotten. There are madhouses where all the drinkers drink. Halfway houses for people too bright to think of anything less than consciousness. You wanted me to meet your friends. I declined for there would be too much intense too much this or that I can find an excuse for absolutely anything when I don’t want you I suppose I guess I should of asked if you were looking but just what else where you doing calling and writing everyday there was a hope for something. Looking for love and didn’t appreciate a friend. “Have fun in life, S” — I think it impossible since I can’t enjoy even my own company anxiety is a good friend keeps you waiting for the end and all that went by – I’ll forget it’s so sad. There were plans, offers, kindness and options. So many good things all for the rejecting. But why? I would never find smiles in this town where the windows look sewn-stitched to the brick walls – my friends, my love is at home. Home is not where you make it. Home is where it has made you. And I’ve long since come undone this week – take me on an airplane back to my bed. To my delusions of professions which make me, me. Yeah, it’s sad, that I don’t appreciate nothing. (And knowing what you’ve lost so you’ll know better to not go looking for it next time).
SH December 2000