Boy Bewildered

I'm never amicable when tired, and I get scared. Everything takes on super-significance. Does she hate me now? Why are her feet so metronomic? Why is everything so loud? What are people thinking? What does it matter if the world runs on money? What's the point of debates? What's the point of this day? Why am I still here?

It's like my brain is shivering, coming up with these absurdities to keep itself warm...

Analytical and explorative is the mood on this day on my timetable. 4 Lessons of pure, pure maths (at least today, when we're not doing silly numerical methods). And then 3 of stealthy German literature.

Mmm... I love sitting, pressing the headphones as close as possible to my skull. Drowns out morons as I attack the next problem, smiling, smiling as I've got them right or next to right, or even far from right, but fixable.

I haven't written anything in ages. Thanks for those who still check round. I don't know how long it'll take me to get back into writing fairly frequently. I'm going downstairs. I don't work past nine o clock. I'll write soon.

Watching the people get excited about Kaiser Chiefs in the common, room, jumping around and looking pleased with themselves. Then a ten minute music channel flip: are there even that many?

Peering through my glasses at objects, having fun with the world. Slinkys look magical as ripples, sines, are shot along them. I got up a standing wave for a few minutes, but the beauty in the metal distracts me and I lose the rhythm.

My teacher looks at me like I'm crazy. He doesn't have a physics degree, and he doesn't see anything beautiful in anything. Speaking of wondrousness, maths has finally become imaginary, and it's even better than I could've hoped for. And my work habits have improved, as well. Oh, the teacher's a hardcore christian maniac.

Otherwise, I want to go to university sooner than I can. If I were just born on time, I'd be gone...

My summer's been great, but arriving back my mother and I fractured our relationship. I'm not grateful enough; she has a different persona for each different guest. Which leads to me ignoring her: if she's not going to play at being a mother, I won't bother with being a son.

I don't like how she sees America: a bastion of friendliness. Homely. She still thinks England is how it was back in the 70s, when she arrived. Grey, dismal.

To me London is everything. I don't care for pretty buildings, or for order and cleanliness. I like the ramshackle, organic feeling. To navigate the spindly streets is enjoyable. Crossing when it feels good, taking back alleyways with friends in close tow. Surrounded by history that makes everything seem... Washed out?

These aren't only English things, just like her virtues aren't solely American. I thought I was past teenage stage, and could relax at home, but obviously not. What she thinks is being generous is just reasonable to me.

Hm. Maybe it's because she went back to work, and when she's home she expects everything to be the same. Even though I've come home to a horribly empty, large house, spectres hanging in the rooms, unobserved. Until I check every room I can't even tell who's home.

But yeah, there's a feeling building. I'm burned out at the end of every day, which makes Fridays doubly dead. I don't think she's realising how hard I'm working. Maybe because she works just as hard, if not harder. I can't wait to be in university. She knows it, and it hurts her. Within three years she'll have no kids at home. 20 years of parenting, and we're gone.