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London Diary 53

God I miss you so much…

I dreamt about you last night. So many things I wanted to ask you, too many things. Why you had to leave so soon. Unfinished business here on this Earth, I can feel it. That’s why you keep coming back to me. In my wildest moments, I can still feel your protective caress on me, the guiding hand that was taken too soon.

Why did I call on God? Shouldn’t I be blaming Him?

I know it is nature. Each generation must succeed from the preceding one. But that does not make it any easier in my heart. Maybe it is why I keep looking for you, in any possible arena, especially in my dreams. For advice, for hope for love. Yes, that love is missing in my life. Now it is only a one way street from myself towards you. And what are you? Just a memory? For a few brief moments we interacted. You gave me life, nurtured me. You were my first teacher, protected me when the world was conspiring to destroy me. And then you left. Why, I still cannot understand.

But who else can I call on, if not God?

Maybe I am still a believer, deep down, no matter what I have seen and felt and done in this world. I have done many bad things. I pay for them, with my blood, with my own pain, everyday. How long I have left, who knows? Well, God knows, but any mortal person know nothing. Like why you came to me last night. Why do I dream about you, still, consistently, after all these years? What are you trying to tell me, beyond the grave? What we had is gone, can’t you accept that? Why do you keep haunting me?

God, why?

Maybe I cry to him, because, in some small way, I believe I am crying in your arms again. While you hold me, and tell me not to worry, that everything will be okay. Why I cannot share this gift of your, this calm through the storm, the serenity through the madness that is life. When my mind races, thinking of the impossible multitude of tasks that I must do to get through each waking day, why can’t I have the same, solid mindset that you had. Maybe, crying to you, via God helps me. Even though I feel that my cries are useless.

God, help me. Please?

I don’t believe. Really, when I call on God it is habit. I ask myself everyday if God ewas truly amongst us, why would he let us act like this. People think we are above animals, but we are below them. The animals live in harmony, but we always thrive when there is discord. I sound a bit like you. When you used to tell me about how the world works. Maybe your lessons rubbed off more than you imagined. Maybe, despite your absence, I still retain, through my thoughts, an essence of you. But certainly, my deeds, what I have done, what I am ding, and what I am about to do. Nothing is further removed from you, or God.

God, forgive me, for all my deeds.

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London Diary 50

The heat coming from the heater warmed my hands. The soft hum of the engine dulled my senses. And the rhythmic rocking of the car through the streets of London almost sent me to sleep.

I looked across at the driving seat at him. Once upon a time I loved this man. Or so I thought I did. But we had a child together, our son. No matter what our differences were, we still had a bond that transcended all our divisions.

He was a god man. Let me rephrase that, he is a good man. Despite what I put him through, he rescued me, tonight. Whether it was serendipity or just a happy coincidence, I do not know. But if it was no for him, life would have got very sticky.

I turn, and look back through the rear window. I know no one is following us, but I still got to make sure. I am in a lot of trouble. I could get him to help me, but, I do not want his help. I cannot do it, I have taken enough from him already. I have taken him from his family, his work, his pride. I do not want to take anymore from him, he has given enough to me.

It is wet outside. Winter. Cold, damp, the rain still fresh on the tarmac. We hit a couple of puddles as he negotiates through the traffic. The nice thing about being driven is the fact that I do not have to sit outside in the cold. My cash in my bag is safe, plus the cash I got off her.

Yeah, I left her. I do not know if she is still alive, but she deserved what she got. Junkie. But what choice did I have. Stick around, call an ambulance and wait to get thrown in a cell. I got too much stuff on me for that. here is no such thing as a happy ending. Anyway, she made a choice, I just supplied the goods. She was already past it long before she met me. I was just a cheaper supplier, that is that.

In the end , it is just business. No thoughts, no personality. Just the cash in my bag. And her pills. That was a lucky find, but maybe I can make a couple of extra pennies by flogging it. Or maybe they will dull the pain in my head.

I need to sleep. But I cannot. My mind is always racing. Everytime I close my eyes, it feels as if a movie is playing on my eyelids. Maybe I should stop taking this stuff, but it keeps me going. Alive, and I can pay off this debt. He probably suspects what I am doing, t is why he picked me up. Not serendipity, not fate. These things do not happen in London. He just knows me, what I am capable off. We were once intimate, we were once in love. But that love is long gone from me. I have someone else. More important in my life. And he has to get over that. No matter what his kindness is like.

I know that he will try to sweet-talk to me. And I will have to placate him. Rub his neck a little, maybe kiss his cheek as a thank you. But that is as far as it goes. To leave him hanging. After all, I may need his help again sometime.

The night continues along. People spilling out of the clubs. Waiting for a Night Bus, trying to get a cab. I suppose I am lucky, warm, dry, getting ferried to somewhere for free. In need to sleep, and the heat makes me drowsy. But even though I can trust him, I still do not want to let my guard down. I keep my eyes open and watch the city flow by from the passenger seat. Slowly into the night…

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Yesterday’s Diary…women…

My blog post yesterday may seem bleak, but there was a reason for it. Women make me sick. And I mean the women depicted in fiction.

I love writers, I am a writer myself. But why oh why do the bulk of women depicted in films, plays and television are depicted in two ways. As over emotional beasts who cannot cope with rejection or as psychos who have killed someone.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love a good Femme Fatale and women who kick ass are wonderful characters for the screen. But take a look at fiction, particularly western generated fiction and you will see that women’s roles are, to be frank, dull.

I would love to claim that I know women, what they think and what they want. If that was the truth, then I would have been much more lucky in my life. But maybe as I have been surrounded by women, I am more aware of just how two-dimensional and boring they are when portrayed in fiction. One thing I do hope, as a writer and a film director, is that I can do a better job of portraying my female characters on screen…

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London Diary 48

Here is my monologue to the world about my life.

Being a woman it must naturally be about the fact that some man has been a lying cheating bastard, has scorned my love and ripped my soul from me. Or I am a psychopath and the voices in my head told me to kill he/she/it. Trust me, watch any film, see any play, read any book, and when the woman has her five minutes in the spotlight, it will be due to her emotional or mental health being compromised.

So here is my soliloquy. My monologue, my own self analysis to the audience of my so called life. A life that is pitiful. I could blame a man, I could blame the kid, or I could blame my mother. I could blame society or those around me. My poverty, my class or my ethnicity. I have a hundred and one reasons, factors and leads that point to why I am here, pathetic, pitiful, scrounging for a living, leading a life that has passed me by.

You see, when you talk to us, we don’t worry about why this man left or why I killed my kid. No, we worry about one thing. Cash. Where it is coming from, where it is going to and how much more I can economise. I am not going to spend my time thinking about dreamy stuff, because to be honest…I am struggling. Every minute of everyday is a struggle to keep afloat. I wish this whole world would tear itself apart, if only to give me a breathing space so I can get back on top…well, to get a grip. I was never on top to begin with…

So next time you are sitting in a darkened theatre, mesmerised by the immortal say things of that wonderfully styled actress on stage. Remember one thing…it is all an act…

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London Diary 47

I miss back home.

It is a thing that many immigrants, like me, say.

That is an odd thing, eh? Immigrant. With such perfect English. Well, that’s because I am thinking this and not speaking.

I miss back home.

So why did I come to London?

And more importantly, why am I still here?

There are many reasons. Hey, I wanted to improve my English, I wanted to see the bright lights of London, I was attracted by the glamour of the lifestyle that was my youth.

Or maybe because back home was so shit…nay, is still so shit…that London was a better place, in fact anywhere was better. London had the opportunities that a girl from a small town could take advantage of.

And it is London that will be the death of me.

Death.

That is something that is always on my mind.

So why don’t I go back home, if London is so shit.

Fear and shame. Fear of the unknown. Back home is…no longer home. Ad shame. The shame over what I became when I left home. Not that I am any different from that girl who left all those years ago. But I know, when I go back, I will be spat on, and ground into the Earth like a rabid dog.

But I still miss back home. Even though London is now very much…my home…

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London Diary 46

‘So do you have kids,’ I asked.

The silence was a bit unnerving. Normally, children and talk of them is what breaks the ice between two men.

‘Erm, yeah, but we have not been in contact for a while now. I’ve been divorced twenty years. That life is long behind me. Thank God!’

He was driving. Flooring it down the motorway to a destination that really was not that important. After all, we were just doing someone else’s business. So what was the hurry? We will get there eventually.

Ah sod it, the guy was a prick. I can see why his wife left him, why his kids hated him. He was so full of himself, so full of bullshit. He began to recount his ex-girlfriends. How this girl he met at the supermarket, how he saw one ex-girlfriend every afternoon at 5.15pm leaving her office, how he used to go drinking at that pub with another girl. The man thought he was a film star, but had the balding looks of a man used up by life, but unwilling to admit to it. Looser.

But if he was such a looser, what was I doing in the passenger seat next to him?

As we tried to make polite conversation on the motorway I thought about the mistakes I had made in my life. Instead of ordering people to do my dirty work, I am the man picking up the pieces. The twists and turns of fate are fickle, but each and every decision I made freely to end up here. Next to this wanker. Chatting shit, pretending to be someone far more than I actually am.

The rain began to fall, and the clouds over the horizon were dark, waiting to empty their contents o the landscape that we were traversing. We still had quite a way to go to reach our destination, far from London. I looked out of the window to admire the view. And why not, it was not often that I left the city. By tonight, we would have done what we would have to do. Then it would be a quick ride up the motorway, back home.

He kept on driving, weaving in and out of traffic. How I sometimes wish for a car crash, and us to be in the middle of it all. It would end this life pretty quickly, and all the crap that I am doing would come to an end. Money, and not a lot of it is what keeps me in this car. Doing someone else’s dirty work. The fickle fingers of fate have still not finished prodding me…

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London Diary 44

I hate her. Everything about her repulses me. When she comes close to me, my skin crawls and my gut wretches. My nostrils fill with the smell of bile and all I feel is a deep urge to be as far from her as possible. But my thoughts are occupied by her. Every second of every minute of every waking moment, she is in my thoughts. In my dreams, all of them nightmares.

And yet I cannot get rid of her. For some reason I enjoy the way she poisons my life, I revel in it. Although I am repulsed, I want more of her. I look at her and I want to harm her as well as love her. But in the end, this cannot last. This self destructive impulse that drives us, that binds us and destroys us. For whatever fate had instore for us, it was not love. Love is not like this, hateful, deceitful and cunning. There is no communication but that of sex. There is no will that binds us except lust. There is nothing that I feel for her except a wretchedness.

I see her approach me as I wait in the cold of the spring night. All hope evaporates from me. Any sense of independence is gone. Instead I feel sickened to see her. To touch her and feel her hot embrace. But yet, I do not want to let go of her..

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