Give me moments, not hours a day.

Something happened just now.

I realised I'm nothing like I hoped I would be. When I was 15, I thought I'd be something with a lot more integrity than I have right now. When I was 16, I wanted to be a bohemian revolutionary. When I was 17, I declined into mindless chit-chat and at 18 I'm unhappy and doing everything for god knows what reason.

The pressure outside my vessel tries to compound me into this shape, this mediocre, censored shape of a person I can't recognise, and I'm wrestling with the walls that fall in on me, but it's a tough job.

Where's my identity? I seem to have misplaced it.

I left it with the people I lost touch with, with the ideals I forgot about and the bits of life that hide in the corners of my mind.
Like the shoe shop that used to be where Wetherspoon's is.
Or the way I read a book about philosophy when I was 12.
And the way I, just days ago, described my life as 'Bloc Party, breathing steam on a cold winter morning', as if it was, when I really only wish it could be.

Sq.