One thing you will learn as you grow up, is that most people bloom half formed, incomplete without a counterpart. Craving that cut-along-the-dotted-lines silhouette which deems them complete. Without this, they are five out of the ten segments of an orange, or a glass of wine half empty. Continue reading The Life Chronicles: Half Formed People
You board several trains a night, fraught with lilac mist. Blood oranges suspended above the walkway illuminate the path. Machines that blink white churn out Morse conversations. This language, the backdrop of the otherwise blank soundscape of the night. The sky is a milky pool, dizzying to look upwards when you feel you are looking down. The platform: angular and shrouded in geometry, as the silver body of the snake arrives upon the tracks and slows to a halt. It doesn’t chug, but glides silent and serpentine. Continue reading The Life Chronicles: The Night Train
If like me, you thought the first season of Sex Education on Netflix was bound to be the peak of the entire show, you’ll be glad to know that season two is everything that the first season was, and more. Continue reading Review: Sex Education S2
Build it. Break it. Build it, break it.
I exercise control in the small mannerisms I have adopted over the years. The minor, domestic cogs of my life, turning in perfect succession. Succinct, and ritually executed. These are the private domains of my psyche, the charts and the crosses, the changing of bed linen and the calculated hoovering of square spaces. Each chart is built of boxes, and each room possesses borders. The hoover head stops at skirting boards. Continue reading The Life Chronicles: Charge and Control
Grief is a circle. Ben thinks to himself, his face is dripping wet with the rain which plummets from the cradle of the leaves above. A showering, relentless pounding upon his nose and forehead, reaching beyond the shelter of his wax green hood. Continue reading The Life Chronicles: A Cyclical Dawn
He is travelling from home to a weekend with his girlfriend. Crammed in a window seat on the coach after running for his London connection. In a pair of jeans and a pale green shirt. Thirty-eight with flecks of grey hair rising in the arches of his hairline like new rot. He holds a copy of a Sunday Times Bestseller in one hand, and in the other, his phone. He sips a coffee from the fold out tray in front of him. Alert to the goings on out of the coach window, he turns to face inwards for one moment; and in that moment catches the eye of the girl sat next to him on the aisle seat, pressed up to her sports bag as though it were a life source. In the moment they make eye contact he sees that she is crying. Crystal tears building like soap suds in her eyes. She looks away and stares at the blue lights on the ceiling of the coach. And he wonders why she is crying. It’s unusual to cry on public transport, he thinks to himself. Continue reading The Life Chronicles: Never Ask A Stranger On A Coach Why They’re Crying