I don't quite know if I have intentions to hang up my gloves, but I have begun to lose my passion in writing. My work is time consuming, and I find myself physically and mentally drained at the end of each day (perhaps working out straight after doesn't aid either), and my mentality has become selfish; I find myself green-eyed at every blogger gaining attention, or every friend making something of themselves, be it through luck or good will and determination, and I wonder what I'm doing wrong; why am I not receiving any recognition, or support, or work. I strongly feel my philanthropism is not reciprocated, and now I feel horrible for saying so! Perhaps I am just filled with philistinism. But alas, I am a nobody in the world where I strive so hard to be somebody in. This column has served all purpose it can as a portfolio showcasing a range of essays, reviews and articles, and yet no purpose at all.
However, I am working on an review/essay for my friends We Are Fiction, relating to their debut album release, due next month; I hope I will have time to spend on it, and the desire the complete this big project, which I have approached several times over the space of the last year and a half. Something truly in depth, in hope it'll shine some beautiful yet blinding light onto One for Sorrow. It'll be my pièce de résistance, if you like, for this website until that flame is reignited (Lord knows how long that will take). I can only apologise for my state of affairs and my feelings, and if you are reading this, and truly care, thank you so much, from the bottom of my heart.
For the penultimate act, I dove into my documents and pulled out a dream I once had...
I was at Bretton Woods Community School, my old secondary school, and I had just recorded three songs in the music room on my Stagg; my awful red, electric guitar; something I could barely play. Power chords and echos from the hall way in this sphere-like building of rooms that simply resembled a prison, with brick walls pained pale-violet.
And I remember one song was like old school rock track, Led Zep, but I metalled it up, like an unappreciative idiot would. So I asked my music teacher, Miss Collard, who I called Sara, if I could have them recorded onto a CD. She said yes, and pulled out two rusty keys from her cardigan pocket, and told me to follow her.
We climbed these steep, crumbly and small steps having walked outside, and it was so scary. The sky was as grim as the walls inside - I had no recollection of how we appeared outside; as if the insides and outsides of my dream were merged, and I found myself facing this sand-coloured pyramid-esque building. How was I on the outside? There were broken bike racks, these twisted steel pieces of art, all the way up and Sara kept trying to swing them around back into place and fix them as we ascended. Then some weird woman (can only presume she too was a teacher), who looked like some biddy that used to live on the floor above me whilst I dwelled in one of my many holes in Cambridge, came into the picture and followed us. Sara opened the door at the top of this pyramid and we entered into hall way that was like the music room's corridor; as if we had gone full circle through a trap door, or even black hole.
There was another door immediately to our left, which was a 'practise/office' room no student was ever really allowed in during school hours, yet Sara gave me a key saying that the CD with my recordings was in there, with my name already on it. I unlocked the door and hid behind it as it opened. It was thick and heavy. There was an absolutely defining bang, noise ricocheting off the walls to amplify... then a gush of water proceeded. Flooding the floor. Out stepped this little boy in a bit of a shock, as I peered round the door. He simply walked off. Following him, a floating faceless turtle with his belly facing upwards and straight at me. His chest was empty and hollow, it had a huge hole in it, like it were the top piece to a coat of arms, and I could see straight to it's shell. Inside the turtle’s chest was this toy of a clown's head and underneath the head was this vibrant orange silk cloth, as if the clown wore a cravat. It glided and it was buoying in the air. Sara stepped forward towards this turtle, bent over and looked at the chest, and then looked up at me, and said "It must be Morrissey".