Give a Fuck.

There is no problem so big it cannot be run away from.

And really, a problem like this should not be a problem. I should not want to run away. There's a lot of romance in running away... this is best avoided.

But every time I get a text or phone call from this girl, my thoughts all cloud together until I'm at risk of stopping completely. And then I'm off, as in switched off. There is nothing I feel like doing. There's nothing I'd rather think about than her, but man, I don't want to think about her.

Nothing can occupy me. Thank Loki I'm writing again because I think I really need it now. Something to occupy me and my mind and keep me nice and sane. Because there are sharp knives in the kitchen you know.

(Suicide jokes seem weird.)

I need to keep still as well. No travelling about, no taking weird jobs.

About one year ago I wrote an incredably long story of all the things that had happened to me in the one year preceding that. It was painful and beautiful to recall butI wrote it well, I thought. I knew I would never recount the fucked up experience ever again so writing it all down was entirely theraputic. I thought of myself as a writer and this was a good piece, now out in the open, like therapy. As I clicked the publish button I remember that I had cleared my cache half way through writing down my experience. It was all lost.

This crushed me like nothing else. Ever since, I have not written one line of prose or music that's worth a single fucking thing.

It has to change. I am a writer; a musician. I can create, why am I fucking about with angst? Looking at everything that's happened now, it seems worth cataloguing. Perhaps I will find some worth, for my own sake. Self esteem issues are on the verge of a violent descent, I fear. I really need to patch myself up. Maybe it's all worth writing...

Every intangible encounter, skin brushing skin. Lies, sex, digital tinitus, hot counties, cold rain.

Keep your mind off of her, Hamish. Do this instead. Write.