Writers block

I’ve been trying to write, and I’ve been getting frustrated.  I’m happy, I have nothing to write about.  I need to write lyrics for a song, I hate everything that comes out of my head, I never realised how proud I am of my misery.  I re-read every sad thing from every horrendous and painful moment I have documented, nothing.  Everything I put on paper sounds generic and dull, who knew being blissfully content was so unproductive.


I can still feel his fingers moving up my neck, his mouth on my lips. We lay for hours half clothed on his sofa staring at UV drawings on the walls, drawing on each other’s skin, telling each other our secrets, secrets of our beliefs, secrets of our past.

It was not what I had planned for the night; I had no intention of having very much fun at all. We met outside Weatherspoon’s at Liverpool Street and part of me wondered if this was actually where he was taking me, my expectations were low. I closed my eyes to Piano Sonata No. 8 in C Minor, Op.13 and slowed my breathing He was slightly better looking than I had imagined, slightly taller and he spoke like no one else. We walked.

Wondering if we were going to All Bar One as we walked away from Weatherspoons we made general chat, I still felt in control, expectations still low, at least I kind of fancied him now. We walked through an area I vaguely remember being drunk in once, towards Brick Lane, but then we stopped and turned right, down under and archway and into a small Moroccan hall with a spiral staircase. ‘Down we go’ was all he said and for some reason that was very confusing to me, I managed to get my feet to cooperate even though my head wasn’t quite on board. The beautiful smell of spices and the warm light off the lanterns mixed with the beautiful furnishings and mellow sound of good conversation surrounded me and I couldn’t help but smile, this was impressive. He suggested wine, he got white, it was good. We drank and the conversations got more interesting, he’s good at talking, Amber says he’s a ‘smooth talker’, he is, but it’s genuine, he’s impressive. I knew he had drugs, I could just tell, so I brought it up, he offered me some; I was just drunk enough that it seemed like a good idea and I probably needed it. From there the night sped up, became more intense (funny that). He kissed me and it was a kiss from a film, one where time stops and every inch of them on you feels perfect, one that flashes back and stops you breathing for days to come, one that puts a smile on my face even now. An Indian lady comes over and tells us we are beautiful to watch, we are so in love, we have restored her faith in love. I think some of the greatest heartbreaks we feel are ones where we have mistaken lust for love, love does not want, lust is all desire and need, I love lust. I didn’t want the night to end so when he suggested I went back to his I didn’t even pretend to think about it, we got on his train at Liverpool Street and I watched my train pull away without me on it, I didn’t know it at the time but I was wasted. We listened to Asian music and lay on his sofa, sometimes together, sometimes apart. We drank port and did cocaine half-dressed and very relaxed. In the morning he asked me to see him next Saturday and gave me a lift home. 

Whiskey, Music, Love.

We drank whiskey and made music. I’ve never recorded music before, I’ve never sung in front of someone like that before. Anyway, the music sounded good and it must have turned us on because we ended up all over each other. My hand brushed my leg at one point and I remembered that I hadn’t been touched for a very. long. time. I announced ‘my legs are hairy!’ and he instantly replied, ‘don’t worry, I’m a feminist’.