Do you drive? What’s the fastest you’ve ever driven?

i drive a bus-pass.
how fast do those beauties go? somewhere between snail pace and stalking-domestic-cat pace, unless it changes drivers half way through the journey. that’s a different ball game altogether.

call my bluff (;


#34 fight or flight

I write to you today from the depths of my snoopy notebook in a corner of my room that smells distinctly of moth balls. My room in my parents house that takes residence in inner city London, as the first term of the second, first year of university has drawn to a close I’ve migrated back towards Casa de Shaheem for the winter holidays. Having done this, I find myself in a familiar stage of contemplation and disconnect, you know, feeling generally just a bit lost, the Holden Caulfield of my own reality. Perhaps it’s just disorientation, but I find I can no longer remember what my dreams are anymore, I can remember that I definitely wanted to be something, someday, and that’s a start. I’m also certain that I’d like to stay young for as long as possible. In a way, I want to put off being something for as long as I’m able.
From this we can deduce that I’m an oxymoron.
I reckon I’m at a pretty weird stage of my life, sort of halfway between the ever angsty teenage years and a quarter-life crisis, but then I’m always looking for an angle on things that make me look unique. In the old days, interesting people would turn to their opinions for a fresh take on things, but times are hard for opinions, everyone has them nowadays, and economics 101 states that they’re starting to lose value, a person has to make themselves using other ways now. But perhaps, I just say that because I think I lack any true opinions of my own, or maybe you might think that because you’ve not a unique thought in your head? Maybe. I’ll be honest, I don’t know about you.
Anyway, back to this weird stage of my life, It’s like a photograph taken from a moving vehicle, it could be a tree or it could be a bird, it’s less than a object, but more than a blur, if you squint, it starts to have features, definition is upon me. It’s time to work into my ethic as many analogies and profound quotes that I can find to help me be the maker of my own mess, the pilot of my own life. I don’t know, I’m full of bullshit today. It’s late.

The only way I know this differs from when I was younger, where I was also full of bullshit, is because, when I was younger, I wanted to be a cat, and now, I just want to sleep, stretch and purr all day.

I guess that in itself is the fundamental difference between Mayme the child and Mayme the, uh, halfling, for want of a better phrase. Cumulatively, both versions of the person I am today have withstood quite the beating these past nineteen years, but, all they remember is the rewards they’ve reaped. A good way to live life, but it doesn’t lend to any lessons learned, as a result, we find we have to make a mistake at least three time for it to hold any weight, and three times consecutively to put us off it for life. I guess we travel through time sinusoidally, not the most efficient way by any measure, it’s like nomadically wondering from peak to trough longing to be where my heart is home. But, self-pity for a moment or two can be a sort of comfort to yourself an indulgent ten minute break in which you visit every emotion across the spectrum: start off with a smile and then cry until you’re laughing again, or at least until it seems insincere. No one cries beyond insincerity, it just seems silly. Essentially, what I’m trying to say is that you’ve got to be kind to yourself, it’ll help you keep your feet on the ground.

As of currently, I’m not crying, sincerely or otherwise, I’m sitting in my parents house with too much time on my hands, and having been given reprieve from the pretty relentless workload of University I plan to spend the next month: counting down the days until I can renew my railcard, 18 as of Monday the 13th of December, starting a crochet project, which entails learning more than one type of stitch, and of course, the endless, endless, endless lecture note sorting, retaking, filing, and other general tedium generated by revision and The Fear of falling behind. My fight or flight receptors are off the charts.

It doesn’t get better than home now, does it?

#33 confessions

I have a confession to make. my daffodils aren’t doing so hot. A lot of it has died, and I don’t quite understand why, this past month that daffodil has been my main priority, well, next to doing well in the first year of my degree and obtaining cupcakes from the Hummingbird bakery, all I’m saying is, that it hasn’t near died due to lack of love.

Other than that, things remain at the status quo. My life is made up of only a couple things; the sims, rice cakes, diet coke and copious amounts of coffee, to name a few recurrent themes, but I can proudly say that I adore these things in their entirety, though they lack in profound meaning the joy they bring me are leaps and bounds past any might of meaningful or tangible expression. I always find the most pleasurable of pleasures are those you do in secret. I don’t mean guilty pleasures, I just mean solitary ones. traditions that would be spoilt should someone choose to sit in on them purely because the essence of the whole routine is such that is so personal that an observer’s presence, though innocent in their observation, would ruin the nature of the pleasure altogether. Not to say I don’t enjoy the company of others, sure enough the existence of friends and family prove far from it, but time alone is precious and always coveted.

Speaking of friends, recently, I’ve taken to writing more letters. Despite the fact that the people I write to are people who I can talk to much more efficiently over the phone or through a text message, the hard facts of a handwritten letter feel a lot more personal, a lot more like talking to a person than a text message, a lot more like effort and hard work, you didn’t just call them up out of necessity or text them through boredom, having it be their number your thumb finds, you thought about what you wanted to say, who you wanted to say it to, wrote it down and entrusted her majesty’s postal service to deliver it to them. there’s a beautiful train of thought in that, something that I find gets lost in translation, and satellites, when sent in an email. Sometimes I find technology has a tendency to be cold and clinical, even as I put this out onto the world wide web, who’s to say anyone would even read it? considering the vast ocean of information that is put out there daily, the chances that anyone outside my circle of friends and family even clicks on it is slim at best. Essentially, the crux of what I’m trying to say here, is that, fundamentally, I don’t think many people care anymore. For most part, for most people, I don’t even think I care anymore.

If it weren’t for the small pleasures, life may be so lonely it’d be hardly worth living, so relish in every postcard, cup of coffee, fresh crunch of a fallen autumnal leaf and rice cake that you come across and don’t apologise for it.

Life is tricky, i’m trying to be in a good mood anyway.