Moving in but not moving on…

Today is the day that I head off to ol’ Colly and put dibs on the best room in the house, and lay down the law with Mr. Fantastic landlord, putting on my “giving a stern telling off” boots today!

--==RANT BEGINS==--

When I like something, or someone, as with everything else that I encounter that interests me I have to know everything there is to know about said item/individual, as otherwise I feel left out of the loop and when it comes to people, not really needed. I remember all the stuff that isn’t too important, and I listen an awful lot to people in the hope that they will eventually want to know how my day has been or what's getting me down. People call me the ‘nice guy’, the one that gets on with almost everybody and would help you out even at the detriment of my own wellbeing, and to be honest, I really wish I wasn’t.

I’ve always people-watched, did it last week whilst tucking into pie & mash with me mother, and got a scolding for it, but I can’t help being judgemental, I think its the reason people do honestly seek out my advice, as I can’t stand people who think they are better then everybody, or people who are proud to be scummy, tower block living, crack smoking Dagenhamites when they can lift not only themselves out, but more importantly their at risk children, with something as simple as an education.

I feel really alone at times, and it comes from being a listener and not a talker, or at least an assertive one when it comes to certain people, but then I think that we all experience the same emotions, the same thoughts and feelings of loneliness and rejection, so why do we suffer in silence? People are more willing to talk then listen, as most like the sound of their own voice, but what happens when a listener comes up against someone who talks about their day to the finest detail, but forgets to elaborate on their feelings about what actually happens as I have done? My inquisitive nature makes me probe, makes me pester, and I could not do anything less productive in understanding the individual.

When that person is somebody you loved more then life itself makes it harder when you finally understand why the mention specific occurrences, and why they fail to mention others. When you know that person more then anybody else, even sometimes them self, and you understand what they are going through without the bluntness of spur of the moment conversations their true feelings about you and that other person, it both hurts to see them upset as you would kill those who hurt them, but then it hurts as their feelings for others seem to exceed that which they used to profess about you. Maybe something is still there, waiting for the right moment, waiting for the air to clean up, but time shouldn’t be spent on a fruitless expedition, and knowing when to stop is a skill that I have not yet learnt, I really hope I learn soon else they be lost forever.

I will always be waiting, always be caring, wanting to know how great or how horrible your day was, who you had fights with (other then me), reassuring you that you kick arse as a friend, that I value your opinion above many others, even the stuff you say about me that hurts, as your blunt to me as I wish I could be with you.

--==END OF RANT ==--

Thanks for playing those bloody Script songs certain best friend, I told you they’d creep into my head, no matter how corny they are, I hate to admit, they are relevant….bugger….

I am officially an Oneironout, where to next?

Dreaming throughout my life, be it short bursts of REM during the strangest and possibly most uncomfortable place to fall, the London Underground, or my 15 hour sleepathons that come and go. For someone who has never had a regular pattern, every dream that sifted through my mind in the brief moments where I have no access to facebook, no phone, and no worries, I have desperately tried to hold on to, and feverishly analyse in the hours when most people come home from work.

Thing is, when I feel like the way I do at times, when it's always me making the effort to call those who I consider close to me, to visit my family, to make sure everybody is alright, including the clueless schmuck buying a pair of socks for his friends new baby (they always spend far too much time, or not enough), I get fed up with being a second thought, and I dream every night about the same things. Whether its being cast aside by a familiar face in a surreal clothes/knick-knacks shop in an imagined alleyway on the other side of the world, or traipsing around a 1970s holiday camp enjoying the sheer crappyness of it all with that same individual at a time that isn't any the clock can show.

All of this serves as an attempt to forget about home for me now no longer serves as the comfort zone that it once was, the one thing I could rely on to always be there for me. I wish I could just walk around the streets without being judged, without feeling bogged down with the stresses of how people view me, and stop worrying about how they never felt about me.

Phillip K. Dick, drug addicted sci-fi genius wrote of a mood organ in 'Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep', and how I now wish to dial into a state of embrace with the endless opportunities ahead, a state of perfect balance in my mental make-up, where the road seems to stretch far beyond the horizon and disregard anything 'home' throws my way.

When that bloody car of mine is up and running and no longer reliant on my feet to propel it along, I want to take a full tank of petrol, and an individual who knows that silences between two people who fully understand each other need not be awkward, and go to places that are not listed in guides, not signposted, and don't have a corny gift shop.

Or I would pay for petrol, either way, as my mini at least is as reliable as I am at waking up at the correct time.