I am the patron saint of lost causes

So there is a catch. Not a great one, but a catch nonetheless. His behaviour will change, his interest will seem to wane. But it will still be there, and he thinks we're strong enough to last. I hope he's right, although my mind is telling me to run now whilst there is still hope.
I saw Be Kind, Rewind last night. As expected, it was nothing spectacular. The "sweded" films were brilliant, purely for the fact that they looked as though any member of the audience could have made them on a minimal budget (which is of course the idea), but other than that it was a film which I felt tried too hard to provoke emotion in the audience.
As I write this 300 is coming to an end. Much like Sin City, the violence seems somehow real whilst the entire premise is ludicrous and fantastic. Frank Miller adaptations are wonderful, I've decided. Very enjoyable.

Once again I've spent the day avoiding the essays. I'm halfway through the first, leaving myself another thousand words to write tomorrow which I will no doubt avoid in any way I can. I plan to visit the Museum In Docklands again at some point over the next week to gather more information for my Representing London essay, which I will then have to spend all of next weekend writing. As well as my Cub article, which I hope will not take long at all. Hopefully tomorrow I will achieve much more of what I should. Tonight, I'm seeing him.

It's going well. I swear there has to be a catch. There's always a catch. Maybe this one's something different, something new. We planned to watch the Eclipse last night but the cloud changed that plan. The thought was there though, and that's something new to me.

I've spent much of this week attempting to avoid my essays. I plan to spend the weekend doing much the same. I can't understand why I can't get motivated, but I think perhaps it's just the fact that I have all this time which I could be doing nothing in. Maybe with him. Or maybe I'm just not the dazzlingly promising academic I once was. It could be either.

You told me once I made you smile

we both know damn well I didn't.

I haven't been entirely productive today, although I can't say I'm surprised. A long lie-in took up the entire morning, before a brief visit to Bury to pick up necessaries for the Agency work. A late birthday meal for little brother to end the day, then home to spend hours talking nonsense with the boy.

Perhaps my paranoia isn't as bad as it used to be. The length of time I spent with Matt certainly did wonders for my self-esteem, but finding out that the last few months of our relationship was little more than a lie plunged me back to depths I hadn't seen since the age of 14, maybe 15. Dark, dark days, ones which I thought I'd left far behind. I've put on a magnificent front in recent months, making everyone believe that I was better than ever. I even believed it myself for a time. Stephen came closest to seeing my true state of mind, but even he only glanced at the surface of my troubles. In reality, my depression had crept back in and taken over, and there were days when I truly couldn't stand any more. It all seemed so melodramatic as a teenager, but when the exact same feelings still torment you after so long, you begin to wonder if there's really something behind it.

There's something about him that seems to make it all go away.

At the speed of a yellow bullet

Today I considered doing something worthwhile. Perhaps making a start on the essay which I know is only going to go away with a conscious effort from me. Instead, I lay in bed for three hours contemplating the amount I had to do this week.
I went to see my Dad today. I've still not entirely adjusted to the fact that Dad just isn't there anymore, the way he was when I was 14 and I'd come home from a friend's to see him sat watching TV. I know it's now three years since they split, and I'm fine with it all, but some things just never feel quite right. I love Paula and her kids though, so the impending wedding doesn't really pose a threat to my mental stability. Were Mum to marry Dave, the situation would of course be entirely different. Speaking of which, he is yet to say a word to me on this visit home. Admittedly, I've only seen him once for a matter of minutes, but the effort would be nice. The summer will be interesting, as I'll be here when I really want to be elsewhere. With the boy maybe.
I saw Juno again, with Zoe. Further proof if needed that I really do get on quite well with Paula's family, I'd never spend time in a voluntary social situation with Dave's kids. Once again, I adored it. The whole thing feels so natural and fantastically warm, I can't help but smile whenever I even think of it. And of course Michael Cera is my new favourite geek, so that aspect of the film can never be underappreciated by me.
Sometimes the boy can be fantastic, as he's proved a few times today. It's perhaps slightly disturbing that his sense of humour is so close to my Dad's, but oh well. I might consider being a bit more like myself with him, if I can completely work out who myself is. It's been so long I fear I may have forgotten.

Start all over again

I have my LJ, but I feel like I want something more. Something between the irrelevancies of that and the brutal incoherent honesties that infrequently emerge in my personal diary. Somewhere where I can try to let it all out, and see if I really can write the way I used to. Perhaps my Plathesque attempts at literary production were merely the result of general teen angst, perhaps the ability to write something stunning is still lurking somewhere beneath the surface. I wrote a stream of consciousness weeks ago now, and the flow was wonderful, yet I couldn't turn it into what I wanted. Mostly because I really haven't tried yet. It could be an epic by my standards, something I can use to prove that my degree isn't entirely a waste of time and that I truly have learnt something I can use. I could tell you anything you want to know about Charles Dickens' representations of London, or the importance of patronage to literary productions in the 17th century, but in all honesty I'd be satisfied with the work I've put into this degree if I could just write one truly incredible poem. I never got around to editing the piece I wrote when I couldn't sleep, it just won't flow. Perhaps if I didn't feel the need to be such a perfectionist it wouldn't be a problem.

Literary insecurities aside, things seem to be taking a turn for the better. The boy is wonderful when he chooses to be, although this seems to be a lot less frequently than one would hope. The fact that I'm taking a risk on him says something about how far I've come recently, or perhaps I've just reached the point where I'm fed up of my own nonsensical excuses for self-punishment and instead I've actually decided to act on impulse and utilise my over-active emotions. I hope I don't push him away with my overwhelming need for reassurance and stability. I guess we both have a lot to learn.

I saw Mark Ronson today, he was nothing special. Well, he himself was, particularly when holding that most marvellous of percussive instruments, the cowbell. The show was average though, mostly Version tracks and the solo work of the vocalists he'd brought along. The response to Valerie said more than I ever could, with everyone up on their feet and the echoes of the crowd's voices carrying far beyond the amplification of the PA. Strangely, I still don't think it's the best track on that record, Stop Me If You Think That You've Heard This One Before still gets me in ways Valerie just never can. I probably should have gone to see Justice with him, but on second thoughts that has too much potential for harm. I did speak to him though, and it made me smile.

I think tomorrow I'm seeing Juno again, any excuse to comfort myself with delusions of Michael Cera knowing I exist.