Disdain.

It seems the last of my British sterling pounds reside in my purse, and out of them I can afford a small pot of luxury for an hour with a journal.

My financial situation is practically dire, and in actual fact akin to that of a 15 year old. The only way forward in this country seems to mean working away like a slave to the State with a high degree of job disatisfaction. The job centre doles out the most meagre of amounts to the average person who has not had five children at a 4:5 father ratio, nor fiddled the system in some way. It just means another phone call at this time, to figure out why there's another stopper on the money owed to my account... and they're also due a call for failing to take notice of the actual amount of hours accountable.

I would like to live on what I can provide to the world. There are paintings to my name, songs vocally stamped and their lyrics, and thousands of words channelled in all sorts of directions- all very sellable if only an outlet or profile would accept them. I am a poor old contemporary, but I am starving for another reason.

A national support system that works, I would embrace with the widest arms! For the artists and intellects, slack is very much absent in Arcadia. There are a great many countries in Europe with tax exemption for creatives, to encourage culture and to make lives more about the individual. Britain is simple 'tax everything' and 'rip-off far and wide'.

My mind so active toward the bohemian cause, surely there can be some credit found to fuel my imagination to fire into project and compulsion. But even after being a reliable employee at my part-time job for several years now, do I find myself unappreciated and tarred as a regular chancer. I know where my loyalties lie, and the world may reject them for now, but I'll follow them regardless for as long as I know how...