The Reflection and Realization of a Detective.

The detective sat with brier pipe.

Brooding over the denouement that he himself had so recently solved… with the Doctor’s help of course.

Ah yes. Ah yes.

How he had with chatoyant eye, discovered the hidden knife the Doctor had stepped on.

“How simple a knife really is. How something that glitters so brightly can be used for such a dark deed like murder, for example.” He mused as smoke swirled in an evanescent above his head.

He remembered it all, sitting there in heavy oak chair.

How the Doctor and he had walked in the petrichor of the slippery streets they had stalked for a man, only to find a knife glimmering with blood newly drawn.

Tretiorous city.

A pastiche he mused once more.

Big Ben chimed with lassitude.

He looked down now at the killers blade tightly in his grip.

The knife gleamed smugly up at him, as if surreptitiously saying “There’s more than meets the eye.”

He had said that time and time again, with woebegone air only to himself.

Then he stood with knife in hand and brier pipe clentched between his teeth.

The detective adjusts his cap and cape.

Peering over the city.

There is more work to be done, he knew.

He always knew.

The game is a-foot.

What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up?

I looked down at the jelly babies in my hand and wondered why. They were a sharp contast to how I was feeling. It feels like I've lost someone very close when in reality we never saw each other. Never talked. Never called, yet somehow, we got along. Sometimes like sisters, or the best of friends. I eat one jelly baby. I laugh about how someone asked what I wanted to do when I grow up. I was about four. I raised my shaggy head of hair proudly, standing as tall as I could on my tip toes with jelly babies even then still in my head and said "I want to be just like Sarah Jane."

For Teenagers

I collapsed in a blur of Mellon Collie and The Infinite Sadness.... again. And again. Smashing Pumpkins seemed to challenge my angst to its highest high and my sadness to the deepest deaths. These are the days that blur the most. These are the days where I don't have a body until I am forced to look into a mirror while "Zero" is played constantly as something of an outcry of "Look what you're doing to me, MOM! Look at all of YOU! Living down right LIES! I hate you! I hate all of you!" And mentally I kick and I scream and I cuss and cut at everything and anything that crosses my path.

This is for us teenagers. We are tired, driven to sadness saying that this is just a phase, this is just a normal thing. What do they know? Our parents? When they say they've fucking been there have they really been there before? Or had they just seen it on TV. They expect us to be perfect all the time when its not possible. "Make good grades!" When they themselves did not make good grades in high school. Hypocrites. I'm sick of them.

I'm sick of everything. If I dropped off the face of the earth I probably wouldn't care. My life isn't bad. My life isn't awful as some poor souls are, no. This problem of normal teenage angst (please.) is all on the inside.

"1979" and the rage is cooled down to an icy stare into emptiness. The fingers that strangled my insides let go, leaving sad caresses and then I almost miss them. Almost. Now my only function seems to be to wither away in the room that I made dark, to fit for my mood. Just laying on the floor, curled up in a ball, the same sad song of the day stuck on repeat as if it shows us no end.

Parents say we "grow out of it." This rage and sadness. But do we really? Or are we just digging a pit deeper and deeper? The days bluer now as Summer takes her sweet time in coming. The days blur into Mellon Collie And The Infinite Sadness.