Rehearsals in my mind for something that hasn't actually started yet. Something left quickly and unsaid- regret may yet sleep in a bed.
The product of an over-active imagination, a more realistic part of your mind telling you to stop thinking about it, to shut the FUCK UP!
Rehearsals in daydreams for something that may yet happen. That job interview mentality- rolling situations around to better enable answers to questions and aid conversations that might occur.
The product of too much thinking; and certainly nothing intellectual. Just dreams to get you through the day. You haven’t actually made a move yet, remember, not received an answer.
Rehearsals for the future, whatever it may hold. Whether now, or much later, imagined conversations may yet hold me in good stead.
The product of no guts, no balls, no brains for real life and of too much time alone. Your a coaster, a dreamer, a fuckwit. Words unsaid are less than pointless, are vessels that won’t ever be filled.
Rehearsals of hope, then. Readying oneself so that when it comes it doesn’t slip through your fingers.
The product of dumb hope- remember that phrase?: you’ve avoided writing about it for years; and you know full well that if you stand about on the boundary for years you’ll only miss the ball hit straight at you.
Well, maybe, yeah.
Exactly. And have you even looked at the pictures. She would never go for you.
I can still dream, can’t I?
Yeah, whatever. Fucking idiot.
The product of an over-active imagination, a more realistic part of your mind telling you to stop thinking about it, to shut the FUCK UP!
Rehearsals in daydreams for something that may yet happen. That job interview mentality- rolling situations around to better enable answers to questions and aid conversations that might occur.
The product of too much thinking; and certainly nothing intellectual. Just dreams to get you through the day. You haven’t actually made a move yet, remember, not received an answer.
Rehearsals for the future, whatever it may hold. Whether now, or much later, imagined conversations may yet hold me in good stead.
The product of no guts, no balls, no brains for real life and of too much time alone. Your a coaster, a dreamer, a fuckwit. Words unsaid are less than pointless, are vessels that won’t ever be filled.
Rehearsals of hope, then. Readying oneself so that when it comes it doesn’t slip through your fingers.
The product of dumb hope- remember that phrase?: you’ve avoided writing about it for years; and you know full well that if you stand about on the boundary for years you’ll only miss the ball hit straight at you.
Well, maybe, yeah.
Exactly. And have you even looked at the pictures. She would never go for you.
I can still dream, can’t I?
Yeah, whatever. Fucking idiot.
Note: The part of the title in brackets refers to something I wrote much earlier than this (May 2009) - in fact there are a few references to earlier teenage ramblings, of which , as I said, is a throwback to the one below. Also, though, it all sounds depressing I fondly remember writing the above while laughing at having started to make a breakthrough from my shier self - one that ultimately ended up with meeting my wife. Oh, and never fear - there will be a Christmas story over the next two days!
The Battle
I’ll ask her out tomorrow.
No you fucking won’t.
I will. I’m strong enough.
You aren’t. You spineless freak.
I am.. I will, she’ll say yes too.
No she won’t, why would she?
‘Cause she likes me… I’ve heard.
You don’t even know.
I do.. the looks she gives me..
As if to say- I’ve never seen such an ugly freak.
No it’s something else.. in her eyes.
No, it’s repulsion, horror- remember, I see it too.
Is it?
Yes. She hates you. All women do.
It’s not as if you’re good looking or anything.
True, I best not bother, then.
Exactly, save yourself the pain.
Yeah, your right.
I know.
28/12/1999
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