Roses are Red

We all know what today is.  The world's greatest Hallmark moment, legitimised by capitalism... Ahhh, there's nothing like being cynical.  I, of course, have an extremely checkered relationship with the implications of this date and also with relationships anyway, and I'm sure we'll be investigating this further as I claw my way out of this soul crushing depression I'm struggling with, inch by inch.  

However, it is Valentine's day after all.  We should be celebrating the values of love and tenderness... unless it's not, obviously.  I broke stride on twitter last night after reading this midget gem of hilarity:

"Roses are crabs
Violets are crabs
Haha there are crabs everywhere lol
Oh god this isn't a joke anymore where did they all come from"

What can I say.  It inspired me.  What follows here is what happened next... At least I was enjoying myself.  At one point I seem to visit the outskirts of word salad? 

Roses are red
My tongue is blue
Is it fatal?
Oh God

Roses are red,
But white grapes are green.
Time to unlearn
Everything you've seen.

Roses are grey
Violets are grey
Everything is grey.
I wish I wasn't colourblind

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I forgot the safeword
Fuck.

Roses are red
Violets are helicopter
Grand soapbox wrenches
Inclement weather

Roses are red
Violets are blue
If only you had original thoughts
And treated me like a human being
*sigh*

Roses are red,
Violets are fuchsia.
They're not always blue.
Idiot.

Roses are red,
Violets aren't cheap;
I wonder, in which of these lyrics
Do you think I'm playing for keeps?

Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
If only it wasn't inappropriate
To be in love with you.

Roses are red,
I'm tired of this game;
Inside I am dead,
And no longer feel shame.

Hmm.  That took a dark turn.  Woo.

Happy Valentine's Day, suckas.

You Black Bright Stars

First things first: I survived turning 25.

It's been two weeks since my last post and, boy!  What a two weeks it's been!  Last Saturday I ended up having one of my once infamous "quiet days", where I initiate a simple yet effective lockdown - no extra-domestic communication or travel.  I'm sure any members of the counseling or medical communities might find this troubling, I know my family and my friends do as well, but I'm not going to sit here and say I would recommend this to anybody unless in a state of absolute mental disarray... Which I may or may not have been.  I've recently been struggling with my depression quite a lot, actually, and sometimes that struggle comes out as being unable to leave the house.  

I guess... I guess I've been getting stuck in my own head more recently.  In considering what the next step is I've actually thought more and more about the things I've missed out on, things that I'll never have chance to get onto because I'm too old - I had lunch with my boss last week and I brought up something as insignificant as never going on an Eton Choral Course; initially not because I had missed on the idea of it, but more that I had missed out on an opportunity to do more singing when I was younger - although I suppose being an alumnus of the "Rod Squad" wouldn't have hurt too much.  Of course, thinking about it, I probably would have had extreme difficulties with my social and emotional states - surely I would have been expelled from the course for hitting someone who would have suggested that Derby was a third rate Cathedral Choir (an assertion that I've had to bite my tongue through several times, both here and at University).  Oh well.  They would have deserved it, but more on the good old days another time... Although I suppose that singing for almost 18 years (and singing countertenor for 10 of those years) is a worthy endorsement in itself. 

Of course, the next great tableau of melodrama is the oncoming Hallmark masterpiece of Valentine's Day... It's more a backdrop that brings my own issues to the top of my thoughts instead of being repressed like most of the time.  I essentially don't have a problem with the whole cards and gift giving and romantic dinner and candles and all that... There's certainly a lot of jealousy that I can't really join in, what with being bitter and alone, but also upset,  more that I just never seem to be able to get almost any kind of relationship right at all.  I feel like I'm a danger to myself and others emotionally, which is probably some kind of psychological equivalent to body dismorphia thinking about it.  The last few years' worth of "romantic" relationships have ended, well... Badly.  I've even had occasion this year to recall one such relationship that impacted my time at choir from almost four years ago as well, as a wave of dreadful similarities line up - don't mourn for me though because it turns out I'm always the villain, a one dimensional emotional and intellectual abyss that it's okay to hate!  I'm reminded of my own failures constantly, and the 14th of February is a perverse focus for me, that I just can't seem to hack that level of physical and emotional relationship with another human being... And if the thought of me having trouble with that amuses you, then why not think about how you would manage facing the same realisation, once you've finished guffawing heartily?

Enough, as I once shouted in the middle of the night when standing out of bed yet still unconscious (a mystery I still have not got to the bottom of), there must be some light at the end of the barrel.  Mustn't there?  I can't really tell at the moment, which means I need to slug it out even as I'm not really sure that it's necessarily going to get better.  It's at times like this that I turn to my old totems for support though, to maintain a symbolic identity at the very least.  It's hard!  It's not fun.  I upset myself more effectively than anybody else does.  Maybe it really is time for the beta blockers.

What's worth pointing out in the midst of all this despair is how good things have been at work over the last few days.  Friday night concert, Saturday night singing at a ball, Sunday services and the most nonsensically loud but truly excellent Monday evensong in a long time, with Sunday evening to the end of services this half term presided over by Truro's indefatigable Alto dream team add up to actually a very good time indeed.  This sort of week makes me question my own desire to leave, especially now having dismissed five potential moves back into England, one from a particularly prestigious choir in a particularly beautiful Cathedral (like that narrows it down), because essentially... I don't want to.  Now isn't my time, but I'll really need to be aware of when it's time ahead of time from anything from a year to three months in advance to ensure I'm not unsure.  Or maybe I should just throw caution to the wind and totally uproot myself without a safety net.  So many people do and succeed after all, there must be something to it?

NEXT TIME ON Asylum Southwest... Who knows?!  Outside of existential terror I've finally sat through enough sermons to finish The Trial and I'm convinced I've found it funnier than anyone else has on a first read, almost entirely abandoned the questionable pacing of the Assassin's Creed franchise, and found myself questioning that Jerry Espensen is the token Asperger's character in Boston Legal, when all along it's been Alan Shore.

Cue music.  Roll credits.