Last night...sleepless panic

Like blood, once it drains away you cna never stuff it back in again to make it live. I lay in the ugly budapest night wondering for long moments what I'm doing here?

Adrift without anchor, floating without plans.
Stuffing the pillow as hard as I can over and onto my head, thinking that by shutting off the silence outside I might quell the roar within.

But it just gets louder, like stormy waves crashing it roars on with monotonous fury. And then the memories start...

...

At first, I let them, thinking happy memories might lull me slowly into sleep, carry me off into dreams of a similarly happy timbre. But instead, even the thought of a purple plastic fiver shoots hot sorrow down my legs.

I can't allow myself to think of anything of the past because it's over and there is much I miss and perhaps even a little I regret. Yet, with eyes determinedly shut, nor can I think of the future at all because it's so uncertain.

So I'm stuck in this none too sure present, frightened.
I feel utterly engulfed by panic.

And so the old (the not so old) thoughts return. Those thoughts of trains and tall buildings and blood.
Thoughts that make me feel like Virginia Woolf filling her pockets.
Thoughts that make me feel heavy though not in a fat way.

And the transition between sleep and armoured awareness is drenched with sweat and fury.
Sweat, and sheet-twisting frustration that makes complete the viciously turned circle of happiness-unhappiness and of compromise that is perhaps not mine to make.

Boys

I love them. Not in the sexual sense, although that too. But tonight, Szabi came over to our new little pad and he and Balint talked about boy things- like superglue and fuses and spirit levels, and although it mostly sounded thoroughly greek to me, I loved that they understood. That they do talk about tools and beer and shit. That's what boys should talk about.
And, as we were hanging my reproduction Degas in the bathroom, Szabi asked me if I had drawn it. And I didn't mind.
What cleanliness of mind there is is so fucking precious. And I don't mean ignorance.

We have decided not to die is a short film which is the shittest piece of cinematography I have ever seen. It was like an overlong, post-postmodern, neo bullshit calvin klein ad with anorexic models. Eat some fucking cake!

But the short film was followed by Look Both Ways as the last film of the Aussie film festival on Sunday, and while I would kick W McInnes out of bed if he shat, it was still bloody great to see that movie again.

...

sorry...

apologies are strange things. Laci was here on Sunday night for dinner, and we spoke about the importance of sincere apologies, and them only being sincere when they are not backed by excuses.

I did this. I'm sorry. Not "I did this, but I did it for these reasons and and and" and as we were talking, I thought about saying sorry to Gareth, because in the almost-year with Balint I think I have grown a fair bit, and not just widthways, but also morally, and I would like the opportunity to say sorry, but after that conversation on Sunday, I don't know if I am ready to be sincere yet.

Otherwise...

The weekend just past was lovely and bittersweet in places. On Friday night I spent hours talking with B's mum and sister, and then we spent Saturday reading and dicking around before a phenomenal party for Mob's nameday. I drank too much hubertus and beer, and chundered (yakked) halfway through the night, but felt heaps better for it.
B also got tiddly, though by the time we left I was almost sober. We got in cab, made it home, where I caught sight of the wheeling stars and a little bit of my drunkenness returned and I was wallopped by homesickness...but it passed in the morning.

Sunday was angry. There was much shouting, B, his sister, and crying- B's mum. They're a difficult family, but not difficult to love.

So, on Monday- we moved. We moved home. And it's wonderful. We may not agree on styles of crockery and cutlery, but it's our place, and I bloody love it.