Hang in there John.  You know this is only a setback.  You know that you'll find a way to deal with these feelings, these jealousies, these horrible, heart-tearing, impossible-to-resolve desires.  They're excruciating now, yes, they rob you of almost all rational thought, yes, but they'll pass.  They'll pass.

Please God, let them pass soon.  And stay passed.

I really don't like this mood.  It's fairly rare, fortunately, but makes for a pretty miserable time when it crops up.

It's the "so, if I'm never going to find someone who loves me, what's the point of continuing" mood.

The one that, had I the courage, might lead to me heading out of the window, or somesuch.  I haven't the courage, of course, so don't worry.  Not that you did, I expect.  Yes, that's the other aspect of it - even though I know people do give a shit, this mood stops me believing it, so I'm convinced that I'm completely alone, and that nobody would care if I wasn't here.

Thing is, it seems quite probable that I'm not going to find anyone to love me - to have come this far in life, and been in love quite a number of times, and always without it being reciprocated, it seems pretty likely that there's something fundamentally wrong with whichever bit of my emotional makeup controls such things.

It's odd.  Long before I came out, I felt much the same.  When I did finally start meeting gay men, I honestly thought things would change.  But all that happened was that I met a whole lot of new and lovely men, who had a whole new set of reasons for not being interested in me.

So.  "Not Boyfriend Material", then.  For anybody, presumably.  46 years of evidence suggests so.

Window?

No, still a coward.  Bed.

There's a strong feeling of approaching the end of something.  Or the beginning - it's the same thing, after all.

At a loss to know quite what:  Job? Life? (!) Current period of self-delusion?

There's quite clearly a doorway looming in the near distance, but I don't know where it leads.

A little excited, a little apprehensive.  Very tired.

I so nearly didn't go.  At around 3pm, the panic levels were high enough to boil a kettle, and I was in full-on room-pacing mode.

To my surprise, I was able to sidestep my terror, pop out to Tesco for a present (some Port), come home, shower, dress, get on the train... without once thinking about being scared.  I still was, of course, but it didn't control me.  There was a point, around Ilford, I think, when I was actually quite surprised to find myself on the train, so thoroughly had I managed to avoid thinking about it.

And of course, the evening was fine, I had a nice time.  Outside Retro, as I arrived, was a young man, speaking on his mobile, who seemed to recognise me at once.  Took me a second or two before I realised it was J, who I've spoken to online but never met.  A smile and a wave. Nice.  G turned up, too - was lovely to see him.  We haven't seen each other for months, and I can't think when we last had a real conversation.  Worth going just for those two encounters, to be honest.

Should have made the effort to do hugging though.  Far too hesitant, me.

It's been growing all week, this feeling.  I know it of old, and it's very difficult to escape its results.

A desperate need for affection, for the attentions of close friends, a need to be held, to be wanted, to be cared for and about.

Inevitably, there's a strong probability that the touchstone reassurance of dear friends won't be forthcoming today, because those whose words help most are either neck-deep in their own difficulties (it would be quite wrong of me to impose my own ills upon theirs), or (at least for the moment) in circumstances that prevent them chatting easily.

Worse, this evening is a social one, in a situation that has quite a potential to upset, if things go awry.  I won't stay away, for that would be an admission of defeat, but bloody hell it could be tough this week.

A cool mist fills the dark and sleepy roads.  Streetlamps float above the buildings, disembodied, their lamp-posts lost in the whiteness.

In the almost silence, where all sounds seem streets away... paws on pavement.  From the wall of cloud in Melcome Street, a small shape emerges, at a gentle trot, brickish fur grey in the early light, plume of a brush held out straight behind, curiously elegant.  He pauses, catches my eye, we seem to nod good morning, and go about our business; I to work, he off across Baker Street, and towards the Marylebone Road in search of breakfast.

The way people greet each other has always held a bit of a fascination for me; the rituals, the body language, the smiles or absence of...

This morning, on the bus, I saw a greeting that was entirely new to me.

A middle-aged chap got on.  Black, smarmed-down hair, thinning, with more than a hint of a comb-over.  Anorak-ish sort of coat.  A latterday Arthur Putey.

He made for a set of four facing seats across the aisle from me, that was occupied by an equally stereotypically-dressed young lad - woolly hat, trackies, hoodie.  Feet sprawled across both opposite seats.   As soon as the older guy approached, he moved them, and sat up.  They reached out a hand to each other, as if to shake, but then merely touched palms, almost stroking each other's hands as they withdrew (I was put in mind of the "give me some skin" gesture in Stand By Me).  There were warm smiles.

Then the older guy folded his arms, closed his eyes, and went to sleep.  The younger carried on listening to his iPod.

Curiously touching. 

It did occur to me afterwards that the gesture may not have been a "greeting" in the conventional sense... so much as the passing of an object.  A cynical man might imagine a small polythene bag being transferred thus, although the middle-aged chap seemed an unlikely candidate either as pusher or user.  Maybe I was party to a meeting of spies.

I'd so hoped that the end of September would see an improvement in moods and fortunes.  Seems not to be so, however.

This morning is like an emotional hangover.  The events of last night (minor enough in themselves) produced a torrent of intense and vivid dreams, the after-effects of which are still with me.  Finding it very hard not to burst into tears at the slightest thing.

I accidentally did up my belt to the fourth notch this morning.  On the one hand, this is rather nice, waist reduction always being welcome.  On the other, I'm still quite a lot heavier than I was when I could last use that notch, maybe ten years ago.  Body shapes change with age, I guess.  Going to have to start finding time to go to the gym - I really need to sort out my upper body, which is still very saggy.  Still, it's all good.

Kafka on the Shore has turned out to be a captivating book.  Not quite halfway through yet, but I'm completely engrossed.  Murakami's characters charm and move me, in their curious, sedate, jigsaw dance.  I was worried that, having found The Wind Up Bird Chronicle so wonderful, other books of his wouldn't match it.  It's delightful to find this fear to be groundless.

Most wonderful deep red sunrise this morning.  Bad for shepherds, I daresay, but hopefully an omen of new beginnings.  It would be apppropriate.