Why is it that I feel guilty for listening to music aloud in my room

when I could put on headphones and simply drown out the voices in my head?


It wouldn’t be the same and luxury seems somehow attached to pricking that blames balloon. Why shouldn’t I listen to music in my room? Who cares anyway? But it feels like someone is watching me. And I silently flutter flatly afraid of causing a breeze or a sneeze. What is it in me that causes such fragility? of spirit when other people are near me? or if it’s the spirits of some trees and flowers I still get jumpy because of the angry stag beetles hiding beneath the gently rustling leaves! Persistent cruelty. I never was as confident as an ant in a colony of ants going about their business wearing their pants on the outsides of their trousers as My Father would say, or would have said if he wasn’t dead now he’s retired. It’s all nice to have a friend who is persistently around the bend as he is about the weather, and what food I am eating and fucking shit when you really get down to it. There’s no such thing as a biscuit for dunking. I might take up arm wrestling and go down to my local woods and find a disabled ant to have a go with. If I can stare him down or handle the rushing of the wind between the trees that seem to signal No, No, No, Wrong, Wrong, Wrong that is. There used to be solace for me in a winding stream but now I see toothbrushes and lonely bedtimes. I am a bear they say loudly as if the volume will embolden me and make me shake off the knowing I am only poor old me. It’s shit getting old and as people die it’s bound to get worst, as I thirst for solitude or human company.

I wonder why people don’t come near to me as they used to, or it could just be me. I don’t meet as many people now as I did when I was at school or in the army or anywhere for that matter. Except online of course. I meet new people everyday there. Maybe its only me and theres nothing wrong with My Mum, My Dad, My whole family. But if it wasn’t for Christmas I would never see half of them. I never had it really good so I don’t know what I’m missing. It’s all glued and mended now. My soul but its still bending as the silent treatment intensifies all around me and persistent offenders multiply stealing my belongings, otherwise ignoring me.

I feel close to tears. There is something distinctly author-ish about that comment and it speaks volumes to me in that moment I typed the words. I mean, wouldn’t most people just not bother to write it down, or try to do it in some style. I mean, that’s what I desire and admire. If it wasn’t for writing I would be a ‘sardines in tomato sauce curmudgeon’, never bothering to wash my shirt collars or to iron a crease down the front of my jeans. I have seen it happen and other strange occurrences too.

There is a trick you think you learn as a writer and that is to know when to hold onto something longer rather than just click ‘publish’. I have mastered that trick one week only to find that the rules have changed the following week. Now and then I throw caution to the wind, half the time I fear I am losing my edge If I don’t or losing my mind if I do. You wonder if you are any good even though people click and leave comments saying they like what you do.

I really don’t know what to say now as I type this at past my bedtime but it’s been like this for a few weeks now. A 3 am sleeping time and then lying in all morning. It’s like I have been washed of my experiences and now am expected to act like a child again for the pleasure of others, not my own. There is give and take in most things but it doesn’t make it any easier.

Oh, tonight I have really gone to town! Such fun to be around! Not. But if you have stuck around thanks and as I wind up to pressing ‘publish’ I feel one step closer to getting published, and not only on a blog. Because practice, practice, practice is what it takes. And they all say, If I can do it so can you. And big fool that I am, I believe them. and I have seen the results. I am now 257 followers, 25000 hits on my DA pages and seven posts today (counting this one) The numbers don’t seem real nothing does, to be honest. Goodnight patient reader and don’t let the bedbugs bite.

Published by Andrew Mark Watkins

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