So don't apologise, I'm losing what I don't deserve.
I had a dream last night. Lots of things in it have since escaped my mind, because I didn't want to hold on to it: it was a very strange dream which involved lots of issues that I don't want to deal with in my waking hours. But I do remember one part of my dream. I'm not sure if I remember it because I want to, or because it was one of the last images, and it remained in my mind. I was a student at Solent, but lived in Brighton, with Maria, Martin and Ollie. And nobody's stuff was in the right place, and it was annoying me, and it was a four-bedroomed place, like the place at Burlington Road, but it wasn't, at all. Like, the two doors coming out of the very similar kitchen went opposite ways - but the 'garden' door, which went to a new part of the house, not the living room, meant the house was a weird shape, and the 'livingroom' door went to the garden, which was somehow in the middle of the house. Like my brain couldn't deal with creating a logical new house, so it literally rubix-cubed the old house around a bit.
Things happened of little consequence - an argument was had about butter which Ollie bought and Maria used; maybe a cleaning rota was discussed, something like that - but then I went up to get my boxes of stuff out of Martin's room.
I just never left.
And I remember hearing Ollie complaining. Being like "here we go again", or something, and then playing F1 really loudly. And, weird as it is to think (after a random dream), but I think that our friendship can't go back to what it was; if we ever made a valiant effort to see each other frequently as friends, we'd end up being in a relationship again. Because that's what our friendship had built towards anyway. Like, there's a gravity in the universe, and when we spend time together, that gravity ignites and pulls us together.
Remember that posh guy, looked a bit like Marcus Mumford, who drunkenly made up the whole 'handcuffed to a radiator' thing? I found my green jumper earlier, and remembered that night.
Sometimes I'm tempted to just get away from here for a little while. Just get in my car and head to Brighton. And then I start to think about it, and I think about Manchester, and I think about just pretending like the last year didn't happen for two days and just be with him again, and hope that this terrifying world could leave me alone, and let me feel happiness and warmth again.
But then I remember the advice that I gave him: you can't run away from your problems.
Maybe I can run away, then come back? 'Circling' my problems.
Maybe.