(no subject)
The London boy is no longer a presumption. He is vastly clever, has a perfect smile and pianist's fingers.
It's odd, I never realised truely how screwed up I am. It only became so readily apparent when I tried to engage in a second close relationship with another human being. For I've only ever had the one. I still do. I speak to him almost every day, much to the London boy's irritation. But yes, my past is certainly poisoning my future. Thanks mum. Thanks dad.
The craziness is returning, much to my quickly amassing dismay. It's ruining my degree. It's ruining my life. Oh, what to do?
From university so far I have gained a greater hatred of toffs, or any priviledged, unappreciative person. I dislike my course, I'm not overly fond of the people. Again, oh, what to do? I'm not sure I can bear the stress of moving again.
I adore London. With all its sin, smoke and grease. There is a distinct lack of Londoners in London. It seems everyone from London wants to leave it & yet everyone elsewhere wants to be here. It's also full of crazies. I regularly bump into a particular crazy in Putney. She wears a beachchair on her back. She carries things in it. There was an impressive crazy I saw every time I went to Sunderland to visit the ex boy. It was a man. A perfectly respectable gentleman, with a beard, adorned in a suit, surrounded by bags and various cases; he literally carried his life around with him. I often wondered what his story was, however the boy warned against approaching him, 'he was rather rude', or so he'd been told.
Other people make me feel so unintelligent. It seems I live only for beauty and lack any necessary substance.