Thank-you James. That will be all.

Are you aching for the grave?
Hoping to make the cut.
Is there a wound you cannot stave?
Wishing you were anywhere but.

Is that a tear in the corner of your pain?
Cascading through this eternal nightmare
Lifes' blood spills, leaving an indelible stain
Covering a gap that wasn't really there

If you measure a man by the depth of his lies.
Then watch as we kneel before the final crown
This unfathomable soul thus meet its demise
Its highs just serve to bring me down

With hope lost, I'm blind to living
Funereal flowers and the stench of decay
A world full of victims no thanksgiving
The convulsions of life have made me this way

I've been getting away with it.

Windmills of my mind

It's long past midnight.  I have nothing to say.  Nothing to write.  I want to, but I can't.  The frustration is almost physical.  There's nothing there.  If there is, I can't find it.  My mind is turning furiously, feverishly searching for something to write about.  Whirring, spinning, churning.

Round.

You know how sometimes a song resonates exactly with the way you are thinking?  You listen and the lyrics express precisely the ideas, emotions or feelings you are experiencing in a way you never could.  The words capturing perfectly, unequivocably, your state of mind.

Like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending or beginning
On an ever spinning reel

I have been struggling to think of something to write, bogged down in a swamp of failure.  I get so frustrated, because I can feel the words inside my head, struggling to escape, lurking below the surface, rising, only to get sucked back down again.  I can see them, floundering, their shape so close yet indistinct and impossible to make out. I feel there must be something to be written if only I could find the time.  Capture a moment.  But time passes. 

Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
Past the minutes of its face
And the world is like an apple
Whirling silently in space

I get anxious, the anxiety surrendering to despondency, desolation and finally desperation.  I know it's there, lurking, hidden.  The fear of failure drives me on, drives me down into the dark places, where secrets lie hidden, waiting to be disturbed.

Like a tunnel that you follow
To a tunnel of its own
Down a hollow to a cavern
Where the sun has never shone,
Like a door that keeps revolving
In a half forgotten dream,
Or the ripples from a pebble
Someone tosses in a stream

The ideas sweep around inside in my head, words spinning, spiralling out of control.  Jumbled incoherent phrases. A maelstrom of fancies, theories, concepts.  Chaotic, turbulent notions, cast about carelessly, randomly, offering glimpses of a tale to be told, a story to write.  My consciousness wants to scream, but the sound is drowned out by the noise of  my unconscious.  Reasoning, regard and sanity are squashed by the anarchic disorder, too powerful to permit logic. 

Keys that jingle in your pocket
Words that jangle in your head
Why did summer go so quickly?
Was it something that you said?
Lovers walk along a shore
And leave their footprints in the sand

Is the sound of distant drumming 
Just the fingers of your hand?
Pictures hanging in a hallway
And the fragment of this song
Half remembered names and faces
But to whom do they belong?

I'm trapped on this carousel.  Endlessly turning, always moving, never achieving.

Like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending or beginning
On an ever spinning reel

As the images unwind
Like the circles
That you find
In the windmills of your mind!

I have nothing to say.  So it starts again.

Round.

Staying in lane.

It is estimated that there are 245,000 miles of road in the UK.  To put that in perspective, you could drive to the moon and still not get to the end of the road, if you'll pardon the pun.  Interestingly, if you wait long enough you might get to the end of the road, because the total distance of tarmac in the UK (not including new build) gets shorter every year. Scientifically, it gets shorter because the accuracy of our measurement gets better, but sub-consciously I can't help liking the idea that somewhere, somehow, some roads are getting shorter. The smarter among you will have noticed I prefaced my first fact with "estimated" (that's why I like you, you're smart). The total distance is estimated, because, well, we just don't know where all the roads are.  I'm not talking about missing roads, like the M7, M10 or even more carelessly missing, all the Ms from 12 to 17 inclusive. I'm sure we will find them one day.  I'm talking about the ones we know about, like the one outside my front door.  We know it's there, we just don't really know where it starts and ends, so we don't know what we are measuring.  Don't think about it too much.  It makes your head hurt.

As I lead you merrily down this garden path, and we jump inside my Honda CRV, before pulling out into the aforementioned very busy road, you would be forgiven for wondering where I am taking you.  Well, not far. I just want to show you something. It's the M27 specifically, but Motorways generally.  Motorways only account for 0.9% of UK roads, but that's still 2205 miles of M.  I feel as if I have driven most of them this school holiday.  I admit I haven't seen much of them because most of the time I have spent contorting myself from the waist up, screaming at the children to keep quiet, and if I'm not screaming at the kids, I'm screaming at everyone else.  That's because I have proven my theory that people see the Motorway as a sub-conscious but precise reflection of their character.  The lane we drive in, correlates directly to the sort of person we are.  That's why no-one drives in the inside lane.  The slow lane.  No-one wants to admit publicly to the world that they are slow.  No-one willingly admits they slavishly follow the laws of the land.  Unless they do.  That's why the inside lane is full of sensible, courteous people demonstrating decency, caution and consideration.  And old people. And trucks.

Likewise, no-one drives in the outside lane, the overtaking lane.  The fast lane.  No-one willingly admits they can't wait and don't give a damn about the law.  Unless they can't and don't.  That's why the outside lane is full of people who drive too fast and too close, avoiding rational behaviour and staking too much on the forlorn and misguided belief that they have the reaction time of a fast-jet pilot.  And pricks (admittedly and possibly, also the occasional fast-jet pilot but the two, in my experience are not mutually exclusive).

Not wanting to be one of the minority, the majority end up in the middle lane.  The people in the middle lane aren't slow or old. They don't mind breaking the law.  A bit. Every now and then they will pop into the fast lane, just to demonstrate they have that dangerous, edgy side, but ease comfortably back into their lane once they have manoeuvred past someone else in the middle lane, exuding that strange, smug, self-satisfaction that they are, still, able to pass others in life, even if it's just metaphorically. Just as, occasionally, they will drop down into the slow lane, just for a while, until frustrated with following someone else's pace, and having demonstrated the perceived, requisite respect for the law, others and the appearance of respectability, they accelerate back into the middle lane. Where they feel comfortable.

That's why the middle lane is full of people like me. And you.  Normal people with real lives.  People who can't do everything according to the rules, because if we travel at the right speeds and stay in the right lane, we just won't get anywhere.  We can't wait for everyone else, but we don't want to annoy them.  We look one way, at the inside lane, marvelling at how anyone can have the time and patience to calmly sit there, idly wending their way through life without constantly being late. We rant at their complete and utter indifference to the realities of life, the blindingly obvious lack of baggage occupying every inch of their otherwise empty car, whilst jealously wishing we had that luxury.  We look the other way, at the outside lane, at those who overtake us, surreptitiously eyeing up their bigger, faster car, the two-seater sporty one with no room for child seats, let alone luggage.  We mouth the platitude that they won't get there any faster.  But we know they will.  Because they don't care.  And why should they?  Statistically, Motorways are the safest roads to drive on.

I was on the M25 last week.  There are four lanes. I predict the breakdown of society.