Treemask

back home, apparently unexpected, but welcomed as always now. Edward doesn't live here anymore. Edward, with his silent ways and cruel face, no romance just basic. the room we shared is still inebriated by his scent, with the air thin and the blue tac greasing the paintwork. i thought i would be at peace in his absence but i could only stare at the bedside table and fight the tears again. two signed football jerseys, a globe, a bookshelf, a box of old wii games, glow in the dark stars on the ceiling, a squire strat, a broken CD player, a goalkeeping award for the under 11s team, and yet i still cannot bring myself to acknowledge a single memory. this can't be all there is. those songs were written in this room, years of standing by the cabinet where the notebook and the phone rested, where the solitude was lost into the same 10 seconds of a youtube clip on repeat for hours on end, never quite being able to satisfy an itch, accumulating ideas, sounds, the endless possibilities of re-invention, watching interviews of mark e smith or tom waits and basing my entire personality on their mannerisms, integrating film scripts into everyday conversation with family members. it's the room where Edward would spend his time with me, where he would keep me awake at 4am, where he showed me the trick with the belt. i had to leave. the circus was the only means of escape.

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