Boy Bewildered

I woke up today with words around my brain. I had pieced them together in the night, and they're gone now. I need a book by my bed, to write in.

The whole weekend I was tired and with Daphney. Today I was invited to a birthday party, and I can't go because of fencing. I've finally found some people I genuinely love and want to be with, and it's not happening. On the positive side though, I'm learning to click my neck.

I started reading Joyce (A Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man) and it's good. Amazingly, intriguingly clever. We started it at school, and already the library's copy has taken up residence in my bedroom.

I don't know where my life's escaped to. Parts of it are alive only in the living, and past the moment they disappear. Other parts are to dwell on, but there are less of them now. I'd tell you more, I swear, if I had time. I love writing, but it's become so easy to be distracted. Every article on the Guardian begs reading or at least a gentle look. Every book I own wants me. Time is wrestled from schoolwork, only to be spent on crap. If my life had structure, I think. If my life had direction..

But of course, I don't really want those things. I just want time. And after that, companionship. What else is there? Why can I only think of two things I need? Why don't I stop writing?