I am twenty years old. I am no longer a teenager, but twenty seems so interstitial. Twenty-one seems to be the gateway to adulthood. I don’t feel like an adult, by any means.
I stand in the bathroom, after my shower. I look at myself in the mirror. Slim. Short. Not exactly ripped, but there’s a bit of muscle there. There’s a small patch of hair in the very middle of my chest. Hardly worth mentioning. Hardly worth noticing. My shoulders are a fair bit wider than my waist. I guess it’s uncommon these days, but I’ve been told it was the ideal man shape, once upon a time. In some kind of romantic, black and white age, where everyone could smoke and not get cancer, and loneliness was exclusive to those who favoured gin, and short, breathy sentences, spoken through gritted teeth.

I’m running my hands down my chest, over the scars I see so prominently, but would probably go unnoticed. It makes me think about the little marks over my hands, arms, fingers, and dotted around the rest of my body. Then there’s always the ones no-one can see on your body, but show in your words, actions, and interactions. Sometimes I think they’re invisible, but, in all probability, they’re probably the most obvious.

I brush my teeth, and put something in my hair to keep it out of my face. It’s pretty pointless, the wind and snow outside will make short work of anything I try and do with it. I walk downstairs, grab my book, grab my mp3 player, grab my headphones. Lock the front door. Walk to the station.

I spend the next two hours on the train, down to Bexhill. Bexhill, to me, has always been a place where people and things get old, but time doesn’t pass. The same could be said for most of my experience of sussex, but then, I only know the decaying piers and ancient amusement arcades. I’ve been told Brighton is the place to be, but I’ve only been there once, on a school trip. I might not have even been a teenager.

Yesterday I wore a suit, and had a thousand things to say. Today, I put my uniform of jeans, a t-shirt, and a hoodie back on. I just want to listen to records. Maybe I'll write this evening.

Yesterday I wore a suit, and had a thousand things to say. Today, I put my uniform of jeans, a t-shirt, and a hoodie back on. I just want to listen to records. Maybe I'll write this evening.

Five pounds buys a sandwich
Overpriced, laced with salt
Paid for with small coins
Thrown in a case
For warbled renditions of someone elses feelings

You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head
And a level head on your shoulders
Or you’ll go far, but never finish with them attached

I am told I am young
Yet my brother says I am old
I am told I am free
Yet my heart says I am caged
I am told we are wealthy
Yet the bank says I owe
Yet the adverts say to buy
And to buy, is to be free
And the government says it’s sorry
And the papers say they lie
Then they tell me we need war, to bring peace

And yet, all the time, the television tells me everything, yet nothing. How curious.

I tell myself, in muttered breath, I am me
Yet, I am made
And I tell myself, in muffled words
My last word will be “fire”

Inside it's hot and sweaty. The air is moist, and stale, from the stench of the sweat as it seeps up from your encarcerated body. You can hear every rhythm of your body. The blood pumping, short bursts of breath. Then it comes. Switches one way, switches another, then flys towards you. Its brilliant, passionate burst hits your legs with a dull thud, as you shoot them out hard. Your whole body drops, and as the deflection comes, your neck snaps back, the ringing you hear is a perfect G as the world encapsulating your head vibrates. Outstreched, your left hand lies flat on the ground, wrapped up in synthetic protection.

The puck is yours.