Another sleepless night

I don't suffer from insomnia. I don't suffer from it because I say so. That's how things work in my world, you see. Sometimes that goes wrong and sometimes it doesn't. It went wrong with her and the kids but there are a whole bunch of other things where it just works out fine.

With insomnia it works just fine.

You see, me not being able to sleep has nothing to do with insomnia because there is just so much to think about; my job, music her and the kids, and there are some nights where I'll just stay awake and think about them. I let them flood in and out an over me. I like to think about them you see.

Sometimes I'll just get up and sit at my computer and make some music. It's dead easy. I like to make music that reminds me of a time that has been and gone and that's ok. It's ok. Really, it doesn't matter that those times have gone.

It's just a pain when you start to run out of time and the chores of work come calling.

Disposable

My boss said to me this morning „Felix, you’re disposable”. He said that and left me sitting at my desk. He just left me sitting there whilst everyone else pretended to type emails or water a plant or do something, anything other than look at me.

Disposable.

I’m not quite sure if that means I’m fired. What was he trying to say? Should a get a little cardboard box now? Should I shut down my computer and lie to my colleagues and tell them it was a fun couple of months and, boy, I’ve really learnt a lot?

Then the phone rang. It was my boss asking me if I could make a meeting tomorrow with the team from Credit Suisse.

I’ll never understand this country. I’ll never understand these people.

Bad hair day

untitled from ohohxlove on Vimeo.

I'm having what I like to call a bad hair day. I don't have much hair these days, but I used to. I used to have hair when I was with her but that is all over now isn't it?

I couldn't get my arse out of bed today, my mood and my hangover just wouldn't let me and the idea of sitting in an office churning out management information reports just wouldn't let me. So I called in sick.

Fuck them. Fuck him. Fuck my fucking line manager. Fuck him.

I've spent most of today watching old videos of me and her. I drank a little. OK, I drank a little bit more but I'm off sick so fuck it. I've just been sitting in a saggy old armchair watching bits of my past flicker before my eyes. Little clips. Little moments. All gone now.

I'm off work.

I've not shaved. I've not brushed my teeth. I don't need to because, as I said, I'm having a bad hair day.

So fuck them all.

Longfellow

Größere Kartenansicht

I should stop eating cheese before going to bed. It was either the cheese or the whiskey but I don’t want it to be the whiskey so I’m going to blame the cheese. Yes, the cheese is to blame for the dreams I’m having and not the whiskey.

It’s always the same dream. It’s always the same leafy road and the dream always stops a few steps away from the red pick-up and the creamy coloured house. I’m sure there’s someone in the car and that someone is watching the house and there’s someone in the house watching the someone in the car. It’s really quiet odd. It’s scares the living daylights out of me.

I’ve never been there, of this I’m sure. It looks American and I know I’ve never been there but it all looks very familiar and I always seem to know my way.

There is someone in the car, but I never get close enough to have a look because my legs, in my dream, refuse to take me closer.

Tell me true

It's late. It's been a hard day. Solace comes only when I look for it you see.

Sunday night papers.

I’m knackered. I’m sat at my desk and knackered. I was up all night working on a spread sheet that has just been binned by my boss. He’ll use it of course but he’s officially informed me that its rubbish and our client will never see it. Ever.

I spent hours working on the bloody thing, a long dark silent night of formulas and benchmarking. Each cell cross referenced and neatly ordered to show the general mess this client is in. As the night got darker the spreadsheet got bigger and started to develop a life of its own. Each cell started to talk to each other and there were times when I caught the data chatting about how they got to be in the state they were in.

I just needed to guide them, just prod them in the right direction and get each cell talking to each other. It’s a conversation I understand but my boss doesn’t.

The sorrow of the last tea bag.

I could have had a lay in this morning. God knows I could use it. But my hemorrhoids are bloody killing me this morning and after a good five minutes of scratching I was forced to drag my bloodied backside into the toilet to mop up the mess.

I’m sat at my computer now writing words that no one will ever read in the hope that someone might. How fucking sad is that eh? If I think about this week; the office, the work (and the journey from home to work and back again), I reacon I’ve only spoken about three or four sentences. Maybe the odd “thank you” and the supermarket. May be not.

I can’t remember the sound of my own voice. I’ll think I’ll say something now.

I sound like a twat.

I might actually move into this flat today, I mean I’m up early and all of the boxes are starting to annoy me. I could just accept everything and move in and start again.

I could try and start again.