he wrote on Friday, at some point in 2019.

he knew all his other friends lol'd. Or reacted in this sort of hahaha way.

No one gives a fuck about stories.

he thought.

Then why put them up? asked his sister on their mini break. During which she spent the entire time looking at her phone. But, she was working so that makes it ok. To not look at one another for two hours.

And then there was that message he blurted out.

LIFT OFF. the next day, the day after the day before.

The same shit going up online and it's fine. He knows it is. But maybe it's not,

all the time.

Little black daemon rests by his hand, he awaits its fluorescent warmth. The only human touch he allows. Porn free, he hasn't even looked, for months: making him permanently full.

WHEN YOU'RE YOUNG, SOMETIMES IT SEEMS LIKE ALL YOU KNOW HOW TO DO IS HIDE. potential, Saturday night. Charlie Fox. Not sure how he feels about him.

And anyway everyone will know he's hiding using someone else's words. He wants to hide.

They haven't messaged back. No one has. But it's Saturday and everyone will be watching TV or something, right? filling time.

Pushing the water away is all he remembers and that moment of complete hopelessness. Hope's twin worry, forcing him through yet another hour. The keys to home, or his official home, back there, millions of miles away, redundant now in this place.

HOW WAS THIS A WEEK AGO?!? thursday night. Was from last week or the week before. Let them think it was then.

Red dots a requirement, a demand. He sleeps on them.

Blue ticked rejection: his artificial paradise.

A.D feels lazy. Despite early rises he's mesmerised by the false grip of what it feels like to not care. He has given up caring (for himself). And though he knows he should drink water, eat fruit, clean dust from his bookshelf...CBA. Exercising everyday forces him to breathe more, consciously, through his mind, belly and chest. He exhales, inhales slowly ensuring that blood rotates dutifully around his vital organs. Every time he does, he feels a wobble, something crinkly, gelatinous in the belly of each new breath. Something not quite right. He pulls out his phone again. Taps his familiar apps and puts it away. Fearful and yet not really present in his lethargy, he does nothing, procrastinating for days, caught out by a new sensation: latency.

How can he feel so far away and be right there. Trance like the grip of his safe space, he closes his eyes all the time. Or, sometimes, cups them with the base of his hands. Cosy embrace of distance. They can't see him if he can't see them. All he needs is two seconds of their attention.

He knows if he keeps it all in, that shit will turn to concrete.

CLING-ON. wednesday or maybe just today.

his humour is beyond, at this point. He had never heard of insta-stalk. But apparently that's a thing. Someone can watch your stories without you even knowing.

WE'RE ON A ROAD TO NOWHERE. today. was what they would play every time they buckled up. Which feels as though they were afraid. Screaming it out in unison to make their journey into the unknown seem safer. Because isn't everyone? On the road to nowhere? And it feels chaotic now, or maybe drastic, or maybe just cosmic. Because where is nowhere? Surely we live eternally not going anywhere really, or everywhere in our minds, he thought. If you take away the actual journey time, when he arrives he feels identical. he just travelled backwards around the globe to be deposited in exactly the same place, only it's not. Cupboards sound same, air smells same, clothes feel same, only they're not.

He sees the post-its by his bedside. A distinct lack of executive function. Deodorant after teeth or is it the other way round? As long as he puts them on, he thinks. DOUBLE TROUBLE. or maybe TWINSET. LOL. he knows when he thinks too much nothing works.

So he doesn't.

A.D is convinced of his spectral existence. Emphatically believing in his non-neurotypical-ness. He is somewhere in between, permanently flanked by his old friends; ok and not ok. He would like to be remembered as irrelevant. He doesn't enjoy questions that begin with...'do you mind if I ask you...' as though he were some sort of freak. The worst is when someone who doesn't know him, makes him feel like an experiment. Or like some sort of mystery jet landing from outer space in order to baffle. Or maybe worse still, fashionable, on trend, au courant.

It's raining really, really hard and the rain will wash this away, this peach melba distain, the clouds he swings his legs into every day. The only respite from his own mind. His safety feels unprecedented. BIG NIGHT. tuesday. WENT HARD. or. OUT OUT WITH BAE. There is a terrorism in the question, he knows he should ask more. But on most days.

on most days.

he doesn't know how to ask them. He doesn't trust his questions anymore.

SLAP MY BITCH UP. tuesday again? ha, lol. Delete.



why does queerness feel like belonging?

A.D has spent his entire life working this out. He has spent his entire life up until this point working out why he feels left out, out of a bigger system. He thinks. And the repetition of that, acknowledging that he is often left out of the big things, the things he wishes he wasn't left out of means his difference is questioned and takes over every part of his existence. Even his home. Even his bed. Even his walls. Which are elsewhere. He is what could be described to some as travelling. Attempting to shred ties, get away from his behaviour, that has cut him for so long.


thursday or maybe friday again. Jay Bernard, FEELING FOURTEEN. inside his mind; the child shivers.

ONE NIGHT IN HEAVEN. he thinks this is funny but only if you know where heaven is she says when he shows her. TIRED OF CARRYING THIS HEAVY BAG OF SHAME. Do you ever feel as though you're living your life through the eyes of your biographer?

he might save that to bash his ego with. he wishes he hadn't shown her.

looking back towards the rocks, he knows if he just kept going, kept moving, kept searching, he could just not come back. How long would it actually take to archive his entire instagram profile? Starting from five years ago.

A.D pushes furtively at his mind, he knows that today he feels lost (again) and that the wound snagged on something insignificant meaning he ripped it open. Bleeding as though he fell only yesterday. Knowing that tomorrow will feel different and that the day after that will as well but maybe he doesn't want to feel anything at all.


He has fallen for her digital response, and though he knows it's not real, she, or the image of she, softly mutes the harsh reality of life there. making him the author of his own pain, stained by imaginary rejection, his narrative reads: genuflecting in admiration. Analysis of every move online. She drops from top thirty to bottom twenty in a matter of days.

ABANDONMENT ISSUEZZZ. saturday. no shame for this one, because, he's Taurean and it's true, right?

A.D met someone on instagram, he used the apps, they didn't work and so he went on a date with her, they talked about sex, a lot. Not really knowing what to do, what to do with the desire that surged through his body, he shook. He shook internally, in the toilet and outside when he pretended to be cold. He shook with nerves, with fear, with distraction. At thirty five he'd never had a one night stand.

DON'T BULLSHIT A BULLSHITTER. sure. he said as he left her. total face plant. Delete. he wanted. he wanted to be. he wanted. repetition. delete. he wasn't sure what he wanted to be. to her. ownership. delete control. delete distraction, delete satisfaction. friday. he wanted to be more for her.

RUPTURE. sunday, broken. Here, being here, face down in confusion, head first. Ridged intentions. It's not what he writes, it's what he leaves out. Lining the silence with inane chatter.

He walks, they laugh, buried in his phone, there's silence, from her, from him, on whatsapp. Its embrace heavy, a sadness unlike any other, making him lose balance. He doesn't know what he's missing, he just misses. Dropping him, another break, clean this time, central.

THE WORLD IS AS BIG AS YOUR OYSTER, (mushroom emoji) monday morning, LOLO at the memory of them, of chosen family, of bonds broken and never really spoken. Of times had and never really had, of dissolved recognition. What is the point in making new friends if you can't keep hold of the old ones?

LOVE IN ITSELF IS NOT A STRUCTURE. he discovers Mira Mattar. and after that if they keep reading he doesn't care.

A.D thinks about windows and the smashing and the process of digging in. Sleeves rolled, furrowed brow, sweat drools. Happiness in the leaving, in the planning, in the paying, in the process, in the movement, in the madness, in the plane. Normal, no longer a chain around his balls.

UKHUN?!? silence. thursday afternoon, sometime in June. CHECKING IN.

Analysing truth. He reads bodies, no longer listening to words. he doesn't know where home is, so he pulls on everything, speaking to her when she's not listening. He asks her what she thinks of umbrellas, of terms that group and abandon meaning. Of disproving identity and the negative impact that can have on everything. He doesn't want to be different anymore, only same. He wonders about his operation.


YOU MUST NEVER GET DIRT IN YOUR EYES. he has long eyelashes, too long for his preferred gender identity. micro aggression.


there always comes a point when people stop listening, he thinks, when even his most extreme use of language won't get them back and so he drops down into his body. mind-full.

A.D is obsessed with his 'spirituality' with his incessant need to own something for himself in transience. Pretending to be lost in meditation. Belonging, connecting, reaping the benefits of just being with his digital friends prevails and feels increasingly demanding. His screen time increased from half an hour to three six months ago meaning that he lives for the burst of chatter that populates his fingers every now and again. Knowing that with every message, with every thought, with every laugh shared he is in their minds, back there. Which makes him a good friend, a solid friend, active and present with their emotions, IRL actions no longer a requirement, digital responses; his favourite pastime. Tired of feeling too much and mostly not enough. He doesn't know how to achieve neutral anywhere, and even though he asks, he just cannot get it. He worries that in trying, in maintaining a constant pressure on that journey, he is losing them. Losing himself, losing everything that used to make him, him. He doesn't want to be defined by loss anymore.

TRUE BLUE. monday, lyrics stumble out at really fucking inappropriate times, his stutter is back, anxious crack, he sees colour everywhere; shrieking queen Madge.

ULTRAMARINE IS NOT, OF COURSE, HOLY IN AND OF ITSELF. (WHAT IS?) IT HAD TO BE MADE HOLY. Facts that stay with him only because he has read them, pass unnoticed underneath, buried in something, a stream of jokes. do facts make him worthier? Always coming back to Maggie Nelson.

STEPPING OUT. monday, as well. delete.




I'M GUNA RISE LIKE A PHOENIX. ok...anything more to add, asks Ru...I'M GUNA RISE LIKE A PHOENIX. LOL. saturday. AT HOME.

Pouring everything into this moment. Standing, fettered by indecision, feet unsteady, knowing full well that muscle is made in the negative. The point at which the body is under the most extreme pressure, he fills his lungs. Lifting up, tipping toes first, he shakes himself off. berated breathing ally.

A.D is not a typical boy, he resets boundaries, complicates and exacerbates, collides and creates everything to generate a swirl of colour, caught somewhere between chaos and control he cowers in humour. Covering his smile with a hand. Waiting for his moment.

SAY CHEEEEESE. sunday. gets the most likes.

Dante Fewster Holdsworth.