I’ve been meaning to write this post for a while. Firstly because I want to, and secondly because I think a certain someone might like me to. It’s kind of a shame I know she’ll read this (and she knows I know *waves*), as I’d like her to think I’d say exactly the same things if I was just writing for myself. I will as much as possible. I’m also not nearly a good enough writer to get down what I want to say properly. I don’t really know where to start, how to say it or where it’ll finish (if it ever will, there’s a lot to say) – I’ll do my best though.

Coming up to 10 years ago, I was trainee solicitor and was spending many of my evenings drinking with friends and former colleagues in Reading. One evening I went up to the bar and Karen was there talking to someone else. I said hi, they both turned around, and I was basically struck dumb by the sight of the pretty young woman who was with Karen. I can’t remember much else from that night, but I must have made a good impression, because quite soon after we were regular drinking buddies – starting with a now-infamous evening at a pub quiz and ending up in Yates’ as I recall.

Over the years we became really good friends – we would go out for drinks, I’d listen to her relationship grumbles and grumble about my own. We would have a laugh (and maybe sing a song or two) and all the time I’d be thinking about how lovely her grey eyes are, or her cute little nose, or the way the different moods and emotions flit across her face. I was spellbound from the start. And every so often things might go slightly further – a hug, a hand left on the knee a bit too long, an occasional kiss, holding hands walking down the road, falling asleep together on her sofa. Never far enough to make it utterly obvious to a dimwit like me and also never far enough that I couldn’t pretend to myself that I wasn’t on some level being unfaithful to my then girlfriend. I was of course, emotionally at least, if not more. Would I have been comfortable if my girlfriend had been holding hands with another man, kissing him, sleeping on his sofa? Of course not. But I justified things to myself, boxed up my feelings and lied to my then girlfriend about where I was: drinking with the most gorgeous girl in the room (any room).

Anyway: fast-forward a few years, out of memory lane and into the point of this post and her & I are now together. I still don’t really know what possessed me to try and further things on that particular evening, but I did and I’m glad I got the answer I did. I should have done it years ago and in a better way, but that’s another story. And now we are together I’m finding it simultaneously the most exhilarating and terrifying experience of my life. I’ve been in relationships in the past but I have NEVER felt like this before. I always knew that she could get 100% of me but if I’m honest I wasn’t expecting this.

She is either what I’m thinking about or the next thing I’m thinking about, all the time – I have thought about her pretty much every day since we first met, but now the cat is out of the bag, she is right up front. All the time. I always sort of knew in past relationships that I had more to give, that I wasn’t with someone I was willing to give more to. But I wasn’t expecting, when I found that someone, that I wouldn’t actually really be in control of how much I fell for her. Am still falling for her. She’s beautiful, she’s tremendously sexy, she’s one of my best friends and I’m actually finally properly in love.

It’s a very strange experience – it’s exciting, it’s warm and comfortable, it makes me enormously happy, but it also in some way feels like those dreams where you are clinging to a cliff, let go and fall and then jolt awake. I’m putting my neck on the line, emotionally speaking and it scares the living piss out of me from time to time. I can’t do anything but wear my heart on my sleeve which kind of puts her in control. I’ve always feared rejection, getting hurt, but this time I have to just go with it as I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t try as hard as I could. Hence feeling slightly terrified from time to time. Happy yes, excited yes, but nervy as hell. Which is probably why I always seem to miss her like mad when we’re apart for more than a day or so. I get a bit gloomy and start to really crave seeing her, feeling her cuddled up to me. Hopeless, really!

But from the way she acts, it looks like she feels some of these things too. And if she does, that’s utterly amazing. My dream girl, falling in love with me? God I hope so. I’m still pinching myself. But sometimes it seems like she’s running away from it, trying not to fall in. She has her own reasons for being nervous, some of which are my fault and I know I need to give her space to get used to us, to relax and (hopefully one day) to trust me and how I feel. When we relax and become a team together – two people who are quietly confident that the other is there for them whatever happens – ready to laugh, cry, help, anything really – we will be incredible. For the first time in my life I absolutely want to be that for someone, and now I need to keep trying to make her happy and wait til she’s ready to reach out and take it.

I hope what I’ve written comes across as positive, because that’s how it’s meant. And on the positive note, I’m so so pleased with how her son & I are getting on. If he had disliked me that would have been very difficult for me to get past. I’ve always known that if I want to be part of her life I need to be part of his too and things seem to be going well. And also that he is going to be her priority. It’s still very much early days and since I’m not a parent myself I don’t really have much experience to judge myself against, but I think we’ve made a good start.

And that’s what it feels like right now: a really good start. As far as I am concerned she & I have more of the stuff you need to work – that combination of physical attraction, liking the person, caring for them and so on – than I’ve ever felt for anyone and I really want it to develop into something much calmer and secure without losing that raw excitement I always feel when I see her. She has wondered a couple of times how you turn a relationship into something as deep and enduring as her or my parents have. And I guess that’s my answer. She has the best chance of anyone I’ve ever met, I can’t imagine anyone getting more out of me. I wish someone could appear from a few years in the future and just give us the thumbs up so we could relax a little bit. Not going to happen though so I’ll just keep following my feelings and hope they lead me right.

Here’s to the new year.

This post is preceded by something of an apology, to myself if nobody else. When I was younger I used to be a voracious reader. I would read on the train, on the bus, in my lunch break, before bed, at breakfast – any time I could, really. I would get through several books a month. One family holiday to Florida I recall reading 5 books in two weeks – and one was the Lord Of The Rings (including the appendices). And it wasn’t like I was just sat there with my nose in a book for a fortnight: we went to all the theme parks, I spent time with my family, I watched the premiere of Band of Brothers and, since we were out there when 11 September 2001 happened, I spent a good amount of time staring in horrified fascination at the live news.

Since then, my reading habits have changed significantly. I didn’t have a lengthy train commute (until recently) and my attention in the evenings became dragged away by games consoles and the internet, when I wasn’t out socialising. Even more recently, the arrival in my life of an iPhone and my subsequent crippling addiction to Twitter has meant that all the time I would usually be picking up a book, I am now reading a long list of more-or-less inane and inconsequential comments. Entertaining, yes. Sociable, in a way. But I was starting to feel like my brain was atrophying.

Since I now have a good-length train commute again, I am making a proper effort to get back into reading. Since I’ve just also actually finished reading a book as well, I thought I would even write down some thoughts about it. Be gentle with me etc – I am not used to writing like this.

The book is Underworld by Don DeLillo. I didn’t know much about this book when I bought it, other than I was after a big novel to take on holiday. This was in Waterstones’ staff recommendations section and a quick page through gave me the impression that it was a contemporary book addressing the ‘American condition’ (for want of a better term) in a beautifully-written way. That initial impression turned out correct.

What DeLillo does with this book is to weave together separate strands of narrative and character through the decades of American history, from the 1950s to the turn of the millennium. There is no plot in the traditional sense, he is more concerned with dealing with the inner life of his characters in the context of their place, current affairs and personal history. As you would probably expect, themes of mortality and sexuality recur frequently, as do wider worries from the era. DeLillo makes an early link between the atom bomb and a ‘lost’ baseball (fissile material in a bomb being about the same size) and frequently weaves one or the other into the writing, keeping the background Cold War paranoia simmering away. The inclusion of real-world characters such as J Edgar Hoover served to heighten this effect. You wonder throughout however how the book, published in 1997, would have been different if it had been written after 2001. Especially given the prominent view of the two towers of the World Trade Center on the front cover.

Due to the nature of the book it doesn’t feel like there is a beginning or end as such – most of the characters’ stories are not resolved. You are left wondering whether they escape their private misery, or indeed if they even want to, even if they see it that way. The impression is however that DeLillo is not interested in resolutions so much as trying to flay away the surface to get at the inner thinking and motivations of his cast and, by extension, people like you and I. In this he succeeds rather well, even if it isn’t always pleasant to read. People are dishonest, selfish, violent. But we knew that, didn’t we? He also manages to imbue the book with a sense of the space between people, their isolation in their own head, even in the middle of a loving relationship.

There is so much more I could say about this book. I often found myself wanting to read in tandem with a book of textural analysis as I am sure I didn’t get everything out of it. There are no doubt many cultural beats that passed me by as a non-American reader. I will just put down a couple of specific memories. One chapter from the 1960s could easily have been an inspiration for Mad Men. Another chapter involving a drive through the desert had a really personal resonance for me. Although in a book this big and with its preoccupations, something is bound to hit home somewhere. The following quotation from late in the book also really stood out for me:

There are times when you want to stop working at faith and just be washed in a blowing wind that tells you everything.

And who doesn’t want that? The calm and certainty of just knowing? Few of DeLillo’s many characters get this and I doubt many of us do either.

I’ve been a bit misguided recently, something I intend to repair as soon as I can. I’m not going to write about all that, but I am going to write a little tribute to a recent realisation I have had in terms of music. A moment of clarity. An epiphany, if you will.

Yes, I have come to the conclusion that, never mind all the metal, dubstep, progressive rock and electronica I usually listen to, the greatest musical phenomenon of our times is the band Steps.

Yes, Steps. The band of ’5, 6, 7, 8′, ‘Tragedy’, ‘Chain Reaction’ and so many other modern classics that I couldn’t possibly list them all here. I’ve said before that it’s a particular joy to discover a new band with an extensive back catalogue to go through and investigate; that’s certainly the case here. I am still very new to this, but I’m very much looking forward to it.

From searching about them on the internet, it seems that fans each have a favourite one. Some say Lee, as he’s a good dancer. Others prefer one of the girls, as they are (let’s be honest) quite pretty. Me, I can tell already that it’s all about H. I mean, just look at him. That fringe, the blond, the cheeky wee demeanor. He gets all the best singing parts too. Which is only right, really.

And it’s not just the music. There’s the costumes. And then there’s the dance routines. Amazing. It’s like a whole new aspect of musical enjoyment I never new existed. I mean, look at this. Just look at this:

Almost as good as sneaking up on herons. Brilliant. Looks like I’ll be learning some of those moves.

Wow, yet another personal, introspective post. Wonder whether I should buy a big book and write a diary instead? I guess part of me wants all this read by someone though, however silent and anonymous they may be. Never mind, pretty soon I will get back to innocuous posts about music and video games, I expect.

Last week was a bit of a difficult one. I was missing living in Oxford horribly and in a lot of ways, finding the change in my life really quite difficult. And without going into details, this was feeding into my personal relationships. This came to a head on Thursday and resulted in me sending a well-intentioned but probably badly-worded email. With probably predictable results. A long emergency conversation later and things are now on a much more even keel. I feel better understood anyway.

In the context of that conversation, I was told that, in many ways, I want it all. And I think that’s very true. I’ve reset a big part of my life and I want to be back in a situation where I have those same stabilities, certainties and traditions. But I am one of those people that, once I’ve made my mind up, wants it all to be sorted out and finished now now NOW. I can’t expect that here though. As much as I don’t like it, I’m going to have to wait, let things develop and deal with the uncertainty in the meantime.

One point that has however been resolved is that I’m going to move back to Oxford. I was confused about this and felt I was being pulled in several directions. On the one hand I felt like I should be biding my time, waiting to see if we would decide to move in together. On the other, I feel very much rooted in Oxford and I want to be back living here. I want to take up at least some of those traditions again. And for a few reasons, she won’t want to move for a few years, if at all. This will necessarily put other things on the back burner and feels like it might be a backwards step relationship-wise, but in other ways I think it’s going to be a really good thing. I will feel more rooted and centred in my own life and it should give us the space to develop things more naturally. If I’m happier and relaxed that should feed into other areas and let us develop our own shared stabilities, certainties and traditions.

So I’ve started looking for places and getting in touch with estate agents. Very exciting. I keep stressing about having to buy nearly everything to put in my new place – I don’t even own my own kettle, never have – but I’m rather looking forward to it.

I get this way every year when I start to notice the chill in the morning air and the geese starting to fly. My mind gets drawn towards thoughts of long dark nights, for which the only watershed is my birthday in late March. Thoughts of frost on the windows, ice underfoot, digging out the scarf, gloves and heavy jumpers. Dark when I arrive in the office, dark when I leave.

But this year it isn’t just the seasons that are in transition, which is probably why I am noticing the end of Summer even more than usual. I’ve changed a lot in my life during the course of this summer and in some ways at the moment I’m finding the change quite difficult. The future holds a lot of promise, but there are no guarantees and in a lot of ways it’s going to be hard for me to adapt, whatever the outcome. I’m in a very different place now both emotionally and physically, but I’m still very much ‘between’ and, as much as I’d like to, I don’t know where I’m going to end up.

Part of dealing with this sort of change is (for me anyway) coming to terms with missing what went before. And for me, a big part of what I miss is Oxford. Now, I need to be careful here, since a lot of my memories and experiences of this city are necessarily and inextricably linked to a specific person. I need to be clear with myself that I’m missing the place and the life rather than the person – that comfort and security, that easiness. If I’m honest, I can’t quite separate those out right now, and it’s probably not for this blog anyway.

But in short, I always really liked living here. And being perched at my desk in my office, although central, isn’t the same thing at all. There is a lot that goes on in this city, more than you could hope to keep up with, all of which you lose by having to get on a train back to Reading every evening.

So, here’s a bit of nostalgia for this place. I’m not sure if this is entirely healthy for me at this point, but what the hell. In no particular order (apart from the first) and probably very disjointed:-

St Giles Fair – it’s on this week and in a way prompted this whole post. We’d go every year although she always disliked it in a way as it used to be her birthday ‘treat’ as a child. Last year we walked to the fair after her birthday meal and she was actually brave enough to go on the Ferris wheel. The year before (if I recall correctly) I had gone to see District 9 at Magdalen St and had forgotten about the fair while watching the film. I emerged from the foyer into the throb of a fairground at around 8pm. Just for a moment it felt like a street scene from Blade Runner. Don’t Walk.

Eating out – the Cherwell Boathouse, Gee’s and Cafe Noir in particular are places that resonate particularly at this time of year. Gee’s especially. But there are plenty of other great places to eat in Oxford and we didn’t nearly get to all of them. Also a lazy Sunday morning coffee in Jacob & Field.

People – I miss being local to go out for a drink with Chris or Jim. Admittedly it didn’t happen that often, but still. I’ll be seeing them again anyway as they are my friends. But I do miss other people like Trish & Peter and Louise & Chris. Lots of good times and they were always very good to me.

Cycling – I could be doing this more right now, but that’s another story. I miss the route down into new Marston and along, through Mesopotamia and the University Parks, and out up Parks Lane and into town. Or along the Marston Ferry Road, Banbury Road and into town. Cycling is an intrinsic part of being in Oxford.

Home being a mere stagger away – living in Headington was very convenient for pubs in town, on the Cowley Road and also for the coaches from London. Not to be underestimated. Having a pub right round the corner was very handy too.

That damn cat – yep.

I could go on. But I won’t. Suffice to say, I think the point of all this is that I’m not feeling very grounded at the moment. I don’t feel ‘home’. And I need to decide where ‘home’ is for me. I won’t make any quick decisions, but if it’s just my own decision, I can see myself back here full time, one way or the other.

I’ve quite deliberately left this blog alone recently, except for my relatively innocuous post about cycling. There are a few reasons for that, mainly revolving around the couple of fairly personal posts I made a few months ago, and the upheaval in my personal life that was going on around then (and ever since, to be truthful). I’m not yet ready to write about all that on here, maybe never. It’s far too soon and this may be read by people involved – I wouldn’t want to be unfair, disrespectful or say anything that should stay private.

I did however want to try to write about something that came out of a conversation one evening earlier in the week. This post may well end up being quite cryptic again, my apologies for that. In short, the subject is jealousy. The age-old green ey’d monster.

Usually I’m a happy person. Positive in outlook, not really prone to bad moods or depression. Reasonably confident and comfortable in my own shoes. There is however a darker side to my personality that I don’t like, am not proud of and wish I could cut away and dispose of. One example of that darkness, dear reader, is jealousy and possessiveness in a relationship.

I can be really quite uncomfortable about my partner talking to or spending time with another man. This discomfort gets even worse when that other man is an ex. Sometimes, just the fact that someone has a history before I appeared is enough to give me a twist of that knife. ‘I want her all to myself and nobody else, forever’ ‘It should have been me, not him’ - on and on it goes, dripping poison. It’s the dark flip-side of me allowing myself to get emotionally attached, being generous with myself. It’s a horrible feeling and I really wish it didn’t happen.

So what do I do about it? Usually, nothing. I know exactly where it comes from (insecurity, fear of rejection or infidelity) and I am usually grown up enough to keep it hidden away in its little box where it belongs and (hopefully) not let it influence my thoughts or actions. I’ve never been the sort of person who wants to change his partner – I mean: if you are attracted to someone in the first place, why try to change part of what makes them who they are? Part of the problem though is that my jealousy increases in proportion to the amount I actually care. In hindsight, I have been in relationships where I probably wouldn’t have cared if she was sleeping with someone else. And of course, others where that would ruin me.

It’s something that improves over time though, although it never quite goes away. As a relationship goes on you get to understand the other person’s basic reactions and attitudes much better. You (all being well) develop trust and respect for each other and that paranoia fades into the background.

It is also well worth pointing out that this reaction I have is quite often triggered by something that I would do myself in my own life. I have female friends that I spend time with. I have previous relationships and in one notable instance I am trying to stay on good terms with an ex. So a lot of this is clearly double-standards, which is hugely unfair. What gives me any right to be uncomfortable about these things, when I do them too? Nothing, of course.

It comes back to trust again. I know how I feel and what my motivations are and I know there’s nothing for anyone to worry about. Short of developing telepathy though I can only try to say these things and I may be disbelieved, not explain myself properly, and so on. Over time though I hope to be known and understood for my actions. Trusted in the same way I want to trust.

Who knows, maybe in a year I’ll look back on this post and marvel at how naive I was. At how I was fretting over nothing. I certainly hope so.

First of all, I don’t have any issue with cyclists at all; – in fact I’m rather jealous of them. I wish I had the guts to ride a bicycle in traffic, or on the road, or at all; the last time I road a bike I kept to the pavement for fear of one of those cars-appearing-from-nowhere that were a staple of all the old public information films I watched as a kid. Contrary to popular belief bicycles, aren’t death traps: they’re death magnets. They draw careless drivers in the same way dead children draw flies. I had quite enough trouble just cycling along the pavement, scraping elbows and skinning knees without adding traffic and drunk drivers into the equation.

Bicycles have terribly inadequate safety measures as well – to whit: bells. What the fuck use are bells? “Tinkle-tinkle – I’m riding my bike, I’m out in traffic! Tinkle-tinkle - look out – cyclist coming through!”

Bells are fine when you’re cycling across the village green disturbing Constable Tosspot at the church fete – Tinkle-tinkle - if you don’t move the cake stand I’ll go A over T and end up with Battenburg all over my face. They’re fine if you’re living in an eighties sitcom, where a cosy rural setting and gentle laugh track keeps your mind off Thatchersaurus stomping from valley to valley eating miners. They’re fine if you’re going to pratfall off your saddle and land in Mrs. Wainthrop’s petunias, but out in the roar of traffic, between engine-growl and the latest Lady Gaga hit belting over out boy-racer bassbins your twenty decibel tinkle-tinkle means less than a chipmunk on a freeway.

And maybe cyclists, being fragile and squishy, shouldn’t play chicken on the open road. Maybe they should stick to cycle paths and look both ways when moving into traffic. Be more careful Mr. Cyclist, with your Flight of the Navigator cycling helmet and your ass up in the air.

If I had the courage to ride a bike on the road like that you’d better believe I’d ride like an idiot. I’ve seen Tron; I know how you’re supposed to ride a bike. None of that tinkle-tinkle rubbish; crank up Wendy Carlos on your iPod, pedal like a maniac and hope you’re not de-rezzed.

It’s like being the Tiannaman Tank Man: you have several hundred tonnes of armour in front of you and if one of those vehicles rolls in the wrong direction you’re a pancake. So what are you going to do, hot shot? Are you going to back down or stand the fuck up?

That’s how I imagine every cyclist thinks when they swerve in front of a car while the driver hammers the horn. That’s not a car horn, it’s a fanfare: a thousand squealing trumpets telling the world how amazing you are. You thread between bumpers and show everyone your ass. See how tight it is? Don’t you wish you had an ass as tight as mine? Maybe you would if you rode a bike to work every day instead of sitting in your box-on-wheels. I mock you with my swerving, with my tinkle-tinkle; I mock you, your car and your flabby, saggy ass.

I’d cycle myself if I could afford a bike – not into traffic, mind you, but laps around reservoirs and out on country lanes. I spent a good few months using an exercise bike as part of my fitness regimen, and while I was never fond of dieting or lifting weights, I enjoyed cycling and it made my ass glorious.

So do cyclists really have no fear or are they just belligerent assholes? I’m inclined to believe both of these statements are true – and good for them.

For someone who doesn’t cycle, Mr Burning absolutely nails some of the psychology of riding a bicycle in traffic. I personally try not to be a belligerent arsehole when I’m out on my bike, but sometimes it just… happens. I look around myself a lot (being a motorcyclist as well means the glance over the shoulder is deeply ingrained) and try to anticipate what the other traffic is doing. If there’s a cycle lane, I’ll use it. I stop for red lights (MANY don’t) and I use proper crossings when I can. I use hand signals, mostly.

But, but, but. There are days when the legs feel fresh and strong, even after a few miles. When you just want to gallop like a racehorse. On days like that I’ve been following the scooters and motorbikes up the middle of the road, racing cars for the lights, and swearing at people for NOT FUCKING INDICATING round roundabouts. The blood comes up, the adrenaline kicks in and we are off, my friend.

Once, a taxi was parked in a cycle lane on Parks Road in Oxford one very busy morning. I had to stop and paddle past him as there wasn’t room to do anything else. Being in arsehole mode, I gave his wing mirror a bit of a clunk on my way past – just to remind him he shouldn’t be parked there. He went a bit nuts in response, beeping and flashing at me. I just went on my merry way. For 100 metres, at which point my rear spindle snapped for no discernible reason. Karma.

Another morning, a lady very considerately cut across the front of my bike to go for a parking place. If I had been any later on the brakes I would have ended up in her back seat (and not in the sexy way). I’m not usually the argumentative sort, but I stopped the bike and had words.

But it’s not really a ‘look how fit I am, how pert my buttocks are’ thing for me. Or even an adrenaline/aggression thing. Speed = momentum in town riding, so you need to keep rolling as much as possible. And being pretty much the most vulnerable person in the road, there’s a sense of making yourself known to the other road users, being a bit of a buzzing nuisance fly, so that they know you are there and give you some room. And there’s a perverse sort of pride, or glee even, in being able to cycle fast enough that cars find it a chore to overtake.

It’s been just over a year since I came back to cycling and my strength and fitness have come on massively in that time. And with that, so has my confidence. But really, in trying to ride fast, most of us are chasing that feeling of Bill riding Silver down the hill in Stephen King’s ‘IT’ – riding to beat the devil. And I’m sure most of us can remember that feeling.

Last night was quite different though. I had several dreams, various of which have been revisiting me at various points today. These include:

- getting off a train for a night out in London with my girlfriend (in my dream one of those strange amalgam women, mostly an old ex called Ellie in this case, with different hair) but losing sight of her at the ticket turnstiles, never to see her again;

- walking past a brick and glass shed thing outside the train station in which Oaf, the editor of Metal Hammer’s band were practicing. I’ve never even heard this band;

- apparently having sex with a Spitting Image puppet that I didn’t recognise. Female, not Margaret Thatcher (fortunately). I think I was a puppet too;

- having lunch in a restaurant, in a theatre/cinema auditorium, in Tripoli. Colonel Gadaffi was at the next table and, when he realised that I knew who he was, he took me aside and charmingly but menacingly asked me not to tell anyone where he was. I agreed and he then pressed his nose against mine, Eskimo-fashion, and I think he was crying slightly.

At least I was sleeping at all, I suppose.

That title is a quotation from Joseph Campbell, by way of Ginger (erstwhile frontman of The Wildhearts) on Twitter.

I don’t know much about Joseph Campbell apart from what I picked up from skimming his Wikipedia page, but those words have resonated pretty hard with me. “Follow your bliss” seems to be another well-known saying of his. I guess my outlook on life is quite cautious (ironic words from someone who owns a motorcycle, I know) and I’m now in a place where I’m secure and safe, more or less. Happy, more or less.

But every so often, as you’re walking along that safe well-lit path, life puts a cave along your way. One that might contain all the riches you have ever dreamed of. But it’s dark in there. There is no map. There might be sudden drops onto sharp rocks. Or fast-moving water, ready to snatch you away and take you somewhere unknown. Are you prepared for whatever might happen?

And what’s wrong with the path anyway? There is light, warmth, there are provisions. A destination.

Standing on the well-lit path, I know I should stay there and continue my journey. But a huge part of me wants (needs?) to run into that cave. Death or glory. Take that leap of faith and to hell with the consequences.

This is all a bit melodramatic, no? It’s certainly showing that my writing style hasn’t progressed much past sixth-form mawkishness. Who knows, one day I might even post up the actual story. Whether I go into that cave or not.

Don’t be fooled by the picture, this post isn’t about Eighties synth-pop. Or by the Megadeth reference in the title, for that matter. Instead, it’s me getting a bit introspective (see what I did there etc) and trying to get some things about myself down in words. I’ll see where this ends up going – I may well not let it cross-post to Twitter and Facebook like usual. It’s maybe going to be a bit too personal for that. It may even get deleted before I post it at all.

I’m a fairly quiet person, always have been. Apparently I come across as confident but diffident. I’d say shy, for the most part. I can be a loner and I can find it difficult to gel in a social situation. I’ve certainly improved however since my career has made more demands that I have needed to live up to. That doesn’t however stop me needing (or just wanting?) fairly large amounts of alcohol in order to relax, even in the company of people I’ve known for years. And here we come to the first real point of this post: every so often, I can get rather too drunk and, to put it bluntly, behave like an utter fool. I can do things I regret, put myself in situations I shouldn’t be in and generally let myself down.

I could write down plenty of examples, but you know those memories that your mind shies away from? Yep. Events that were either embarrassing, potentially dangerous or just things I got badly wrong. Waking up in the morning and not being able to remember how I got there, or what happened during a significant chunk of the previous night, isn’t great and (more importantly) isn’t fair to people around me that I care about. There are friends of mine that I care deeply about that almost certainly think I’m an idiot at best, possibly worse. I’ve reached the point where I am seriously considering giving up drinking completely, at least for a while.

But it’s not really the booze, or not just the booze anyway. Coming to the heart of the matter, I am spectacularly awful about talking about things that get to my emotional core. I can’t quite do it properly with the people affected and I’m certainly not going to do it here. I mean, I love music and will quite happily natter on about it with my friends. But try to get me talking about my emotional state? There’s a lot of feeling in here, but you might as well ask the ocean. I know this about myself, but I don’t know how to change it or where it comes from. I’m afraid of something, I think.

And by not talking, I can seem cold or distant, or (I fear) perhaps even dishonest to the people I care about. I know how I feel and what my reasons are for doing things, but if I don’t explain myself, can it seem a bit… mercenary?

And even worse, when I do know I should say something, and I know what I want to say, in great detail, I can’t seem to do it. I choke, I hope that some kind of intuition or telepathy makes me understood (yeah right) and in the end I leave without saying anything of importance. And in that silence, it feels like maybe, just maybe, my life is on a different track as a consequence.