Over your life, you become a different person now and again. Just a couple. Example when I came to Leeds and the poet/Godfather all that stuff.

But it’s hard to remember who you were before the current incarnation. you have all the memories and feelings and so on but you no longer think the way you used to.

So it’s hard to put yourself in your then shoes and look at you now. But I think the pre now me would be happy with who I am and insanely proud and fucking astonished that I not only go on stage and all that stuff but that I was on a fucking gig poster in a record shop. I think that’s the one the younger me would be most proud of.

Nobody is replying, I’m the last man standing, again.

I’m OK again. but when I’m not OK it’s all me me me. when I am, its all everyone else and I should go to bed but have I told such and such they are cool or whatever?

It’s a never ending cycle of giving and wanting to give and even needing to give.

I used to know what I was when I was on my own but then I found people and they made me be me and it all got complicated.

but then the beauty of Godfather being released into the wild.

I guess I’ll never really understand myself because it’s nowledge one doesn’t need but retrospect, the price and the pain is always worth paying.

I’m supposed to be saving the last words for myself. That was my plan, my promise to me.

but who am I writing for? I don’t read my shit so am i writing for the future or am I writing into the void?

I’d prefer the later but fear the former.

I think it’s impossible to talk truthfully to yourself outside your own head.

But let’s take to words to bed with us, it’s a good thing to get into and knowing when to stop and all that. Remember when you once wanted to try that?

We could give it another go?

Last words are left for me again but they’er not my want or need.

who do I give what to may end up killing me.

I try not to pay attention but I know I do and I give a lot away but sometimes like the opposite, when it was the Sad, I just get too full of the Happy and don’t know how to get rid of it,

so shit boils over.

I’m running out of tupperware jars to not expect a red release soon, unless I can find a valve.

I have been and smoke left, everyone’s gone home, nobody left to message.

I guess I’m dancing alone in the kitchen at the end of a party again but at least there’s lots of booze and fags and weed left lying around.

Guess the last words and gaze at the moon, as I think, alone, before sleep, are for me again.

I’m groovy, it’s all fine, it doesn’t mean anything to you but it’s not supposed to this time.

I’m supposed to be solo. It’s the ultimate prize/cost.

I’ve got you, if nothing else, amid all the shit, you are the one that reminds me to breath.

Don’t know what I’m saying, I’ve been staring into space for ages.

Ending is, it’s good being me because it’s important to other people that I am: Grown Up work as well as real life.

My cost is irrelevant this time round because, scar here scar there suicide had a go, it’s cheap for what people tell me I give by being me.

It’s a price and reason I can accept to pay and view with joy from a lofty position.

new rule to make me stop talking telling other people they are nice so finish with one for me.

But what do I have?

Am I allowed to even dream I’m the nicest person on the planet

Am I there is it ego to think I am or want to be?

Am I the most transparent, inoffensive, invisible, the secret truth in the corner or the tap on the shoulder.

My knowledge is so useful but it can never be given, it has to be earned.

bummer or what?

Had a bit of an episode yesterday, posted (a short one) about it and not a single reply except from Zoe.

I put a silly picture or something and lots of comments or reactions of some kind so I know people read my posts but nothing for this. And it is FAR from the first time.

A lot of them post ‘I’m here to listen’ bullshit too.

It’s not because they don’t care because people do like me and care, so why no reply or message when I actually do need help?

I can only assume that despite the ‘I’m here for you’ stuff, people just don’t know how to deal with all the mental head stuff or how to react.

Which is shit because sometimes all it takes is a random nice word or comment or just some kind of fucking acknowledgement that I even exist when I get in that state.

It might be 2 years since I used the knife but those days are not fully gone I don’t think and Robin Williams killed himself at 61 so this shit never truly goes away.

Maybe I should always save the last words for myself instead of ‘just one more’

Nobody either gave a shit or read or replied about yesterdays words and two fucking years without slicing my own arm or burning myself and no one said anything.

Lordy I do a gig and everyone is there watching and digging it and it makes it all cool and I’m fine but,

do people not read these things or is it so far out of their zone that they don’t know what to say or, I don’t know.

I adore the fuck out of everyone’s love of me happy side but, I wish a bit of that could spill over into the not saying anything when my head is bad.

Give up booze or fags and people say well done on every anniversary. You give up the knife and nobody gives a shit because I guess it’s shit they can’t deal with or understand.

I don’t know how people see it or anything but, maybe I’m the only one who can ever be proud of me because nobody else understands or cares enough.

Sandy or Ellie are probably the only ones who have ever really cared about the deeper parts of me, our kid obvs doesn’t count.

If I was in the sci-fi films, I’d be the one who stays awake while everyone else is in cryo sleep and I’d tend the ship and their pods and slowly get madder and madder or eccentricer and eccentricer over the years of solitude flying through space but not even know it.