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The eternal journal of hope and despair
This is just a sample of the content found on this website. Please visit the website to read the entire page.
"
March 18th 2009
It was a nameless evening,
and I left my room to wander the grounds. I walked down corridors and
stairs and found myself alone in the palace gardens, lost among the
courtyards and hedges. In the distance, a fictional string quartet played.
I stared out at the city, dim and formless in the twilight. I saw spectral
oaks and pines; a willow shrugged away the breeze. I looked over the
darkening lawns and saw a green that can only ever be England. And I
was overcome by a sad sense of my own failure: of self-pity and self-doubt
mixed with a fading anger. Regret, of course. I fixed my gaze upon the
willow, and traced the flickering leaves. Now that I do not know how
to find beauty in men or women, I must find it instead in the spire
of a church or in the curve of a leaf. It is little substitute. A small
voice inside me tells me that it is never too late to change; to strip
away this dead skin and find new life. But that voice grows dimmer with
every passing hour. It is never too late. It is always too late.
I have moved from the past
to the present. And now the sunlight dies away and I turn back towards
the palace, its silhouette majestic against the pink sky. I never know
how to say goodbye.
March 12th 2009
Owen Wilson sat next to me
in a ditch at the end of Finsbury Park. We lounged beneath the shade
of a beech tree as the last embers of the day faded to dusk. I swigged
from a can of Becks and he discreetly injected heroin into his nose.
The sky was darkening by the second, as was Owen's mood.
"I hate my life,"
he said.
I put my arm around him.
"I know you"
....
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