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Friday, May 21, 2010 

Forget the horror here.

I'm one of those truly strange people that dreads being pulled away from the familiar, yet when thrust straight back into the old, miserable, mundane routine it's only then that I realise just how mechanical my daily existence in fact is. This cycle then repeats next time, a microcosm of how my life itself has turned out.

This is perhaps to be expected: there's quite a disconnect between sitting on a hill above a beach one day, in a glorious seaside town that seems to have escaped the degradation and decline the larger resorts on the coast have come to be known for, only to be returned the next to what often seems to be a city which has absolutely everything for sale but nothing that you'd ever want to buy. To go from somewhere where you could almost imagine yourself being able to shrug off all your doubts, loosen your convictions and settle into something approaching contentment, to then be almost instantly transferred back to the place that haunts you in so many ways, which culture seems to have bypassed, where the concrete itself seems to envelop you, to steal the soul which it so definitively doesn't have, is always going to have a jarring effect.

Within a week I'll have forgotten everything, and be back in the position of loathing even the suggestion of leaving this foul, stained keyboard alone for more than a day. Life will continue to rise to reach the oh so familiar plateau; my fears and prejudices will be half-swallowed, as ever, until they rise, as they will, to overwhelm everything once again. The city will stay dark and moribund, even in the heat like today, a backwater I may as well be imprisoned in, only with an incredibly long ball and chain. Until the next time. Until the next time.

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Shortly after I started work I read an interview with a sewage worker. He said that after a while you don't notice the smell at all; it only hits you when you come back from holiday.

Hey ho.

The routine can bed down and sink out of sight if you're lucky. The shit can be dug over and become compost, and something can grow out of that. If your days are spent in exercising your muscle memory alone, then that leaves your mind free to do something else, if you can manage to just fit it in. You maintain this blog, which is a more worthwhile endeavour than most people ever attempt.

"... The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow / that seemed hard frozen: may it happen to you." Lots of sun out there this weekend, septicisle.

Thank you, sb.

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