desperation and a troubled mind

peppermint tea in the middle of the night, a throat that burns as desire on a saturday night, i took a shower this morning and cried my way through it, the pain was unbearable, hot flushes like i'm in the middle of my menopause, fuck it, i'm in london and i can't even walk down the stairs, not even take a shower, without wanting to throw myself off our balcony.

the search for a flat goes on, been looking mainly to the east where a promise of dancing through the night at warehouse parties, drinking strongbow from bottles the size only coke comes in at home and discussing philosophy until birds start singing and the sun is rising over hackney streets, random dancing with french guys and trying to escape jamaican guys with gold teeth desperately telling you that apparently you've 'got a pretty face'. maybe it's true what they say about favourite places, that the mists of nostalgia make the memory of them so much better than the fatal time when reality hits you. i've lost my love for camden lock, the frenetic asians offering fried chicken although you've walked past them a thousand times before and told them that you don't things with a heartbeat, the tourists walking in their own tourist pace - taking up the left side on the escalators, pointing out every single leather piece and actually waiting for the green light, i even loath the average leatherjacked camden beau, with his messy hair and second hand shirt, his way of acting nonchalant is wearing thin when you see the same desperation in his eyes as every other man and woman. only by night does camden still hold a shed of its former mystery, only then does the strange creatures leave their homes, only then do they mix with the rest of us, only then does the possibility of finding someone with something to say, something that actually matters, occur. and here i am, ranting over the commerciality when i plan to go to westminster abbey on wednesday like a proper tourist.