Journal #1

It’s autumn, and my hands have been torn apart by paper. The wind runs through my hair and clumps of curl wave in the wind like seaweed. Everything is annoying. Walking the same path I walk twice a day five days a week. Listening to the same album over and over to strike some swagger into my walk, which I must feel makes me look like an artist but to those watching I must seem like a right dick. Do artists even walk in a particular way? When I was eighteen I pictured Rimbaud walking down the crowded streets of Paris with his hands in his pockets and his eyes gazing into the heavens and I suppose I thought I would stand out if I did the same. I even tried to write like him but it ended up a poor translation of a poor translation. Anyway, despite the cold I still manage to sweat due to my heart not putting in a hundred percent. My heart struggled, my breath sharp and quick, and my mind attempting to come up with arrangements for Jazz Rap songs. Never was one so present yet so vacant. I like the fallen leaves though, and the muted tones of the sky, no longer deep blue, not yet hostile silver, but a kind of diluted orange behind a veil of grey. The orange may have come from the fires across the ocean.