Goodbye.

I'm teetering on the edge, or at least I will be, I know I'll stand back "Do I really want to do this?" "Of course you don't" I will look at myself quizzically, "Well what do I want?"

I will walk away, that will frustrate me so much to see myself actually turn my back on me. It's no use shouting or calling out, I can hear myself, I know what I'd be thinking, if anything I would say could stop myself I would have thought of it previously.

So of course I'll run after myself, and of course I would have know that's what I'd do. But I'll be right, I shouldn't do it like this.

I will sit down at my table facing myself, much like I'm doing now but it'll be different, I will stare into eyes that show no fear knowing they're looking back into eyes that will be terrified, I won't be able to control myself, I never have been able to.

If you think this is a riddle, a metaphor or a clever conundrum I require you to solve, it is not. I'm taking myself away from baffling those few who read. I feel I need to be straight with all four of you. Take it from me, this is really happening. I am actually writing this with one steady hand and another shaking.

"If that won't work how should I do it?"

"Make it graceful, serene... perfect."

"You know what I'm going to do, why can't you just tell me?"

I exchange unpleasant words with myself for some time, nowhere near to concluding myself yet. I stand up in rage and push the table forward into myself, but I know I rectify the change because I will sit here later in this very spot and it will look the same.

It's never been my intention to go out with a bottle on the floor or suspended with no dignity. I need to know where I go from this table, where I move to next. I pace and pace, I've gone somewhere else, disappeared into a back room somewhere. There's no use trying to find myself, if I don't want to be found I can't be found.

It's going to be a cold new year, a dark murky one, but no fear. I have no intention of seeing this one through. Someone clever may have seen this coming, someone might've deciphered my entries keenly, buzzing excitedly in front of their screens as they unlock the words I have laid down for you all. I doubt it however, like all codes or cyphers you need an introduction, a clue, to get you started. The clue is my brain. My mind makes sense of it all, I'm afraid you cannot, not without my understanding and insight. Simple really isn't it. Of course none of you cared enough to explore so deeply as to arrive at that conclusion but it is there nonetheless.

I perch on my table, waiting for me to come back. But I don't, not for a while, not until I'm back at the seat I was in just a few moments ago. I sit down hoping I can cut out the middle of this tale, no luck something's wrong, the table has changed.

I know I turned out the lights before I left, but why? Is it something related to this cold darkness? Am I to trip and fall leading everyone to believe it was by accident. That seems perfect, I feel as if my mind will be rested, untouched or questioned.

I kick my toe against a loose brick on the cold floor and begin to fall. I keep my arms firmly at my side, nothing will intervene at this moment. As I pass through the room, coming closer and closer to touchdown, the cold musty air bushes my cheek affectionately, "Goodbye" she whispers in my ear.

But I woke myself up. I opened my eye to see my blank expression peering at me from bended knee. I must endure more surely. "What were you trying to achieve?" - I say nothing to myself.

I'm sitting at my table. I must have moved it back into position while I lay on the floor. My head throbs from where it collided with the cobbles. This isn't the moment, I won't be in pain when I sit her last, just in fear. So this must be the penultimate time. I wonder what I do in the interim.

I just look at myself from across the table drumming my thumb on the table over and over and over and over again. I stand pushing the table at myself. The table won't move. I never pushed it. I've realised I'm still sitting. I never stood. I'm sitting pain free, but I'm panicking, "Why couldn't I move the table?"

"Haven't you figured it out yet?"

The corner of my mouth lifted up slightly and then snapped back to its usual fall of an unsettling grimace. I never smile. Why have I just smiled at myself? Something must have changed, it had to change. Is it because this is the moment? Is that what I'm supposed to figure out, that this is the time it happens? The balancing of the equation. I know that I know so that could explain the sudden flicker of a smile, but it was enough to tell me what I need to know.

I stand up and approach myself. I whisper in my ear listening intently. This moment passes so slowly, it seems as if each word were a sentence, and each sentence were a paragraph from a very complex book. But it's simple really, remarkably simple.

I will stand up following this encounter and move out to my car. I will siphon off the petrol from my tank and put it into a bucket, then move back into this room. I will go to the only draw in my kitchen and pull out the only item in that draw.

So I stand now with the fumes rising up into my nostrils, peering out of the window into the darkness. This is the end then. I reach down and get the bucket and gently pour it on myself. It trickles slowly down my face, splashing onto my shoulders and my chest. It soaks into my shirt easily as it continues to tumble down to my extremities and there it ends its journey as it flows down onto the cold floor settling in-between each rounded stone. I hold my item aloft and send sparks into the room, once, twice and a third time will little success. A fourth. I strike it with vigour and determination, the spark is bigger, the gas rises to it creating a small flicker that will soon become my shirt, it will become my skin. The largest organ the body has illuminated beautifully as a final act.

I touch the fire to my skin, "Goodbye" I whisper to myself.

I stand frozen, burning in the room of this small cottage. It once belonged to my grandmother who passed it to me. I will pass it to no one. I will -

There was no reply. I said farewell to this world and there was no reply. I couldn't move the table. The flames stop and I'm seated once again in this chair, staring at myself. I look intently as a smile crawls up my face.

"Have you figured it out yet?"

"Yes" I replied to myself as I stare at my body lying on this cold cobbled floor. A devilish halo encircles my mind and everything in it. I saw myself lying without grace or serenity. I looked broken and hollow. I didn't miss myself.

This tale would be over, except for me. I'm still typing. I'm still talking to you. I said I wanted to go out grace. So have a happy new year everybody. I'll be seeing you.

Goodbye.

I Look Like The Innocent Flower

When the lights go out I immediately feel colder. The temperature doesn't change but the dark sends a shiver down my spine. I think I would prefer to stay in the darkness but instead the bulb above my head begins to flicker erratically.

It's so cold.

It's so dark.

It's so lonely.

I turned off the light. But it continues to flicker, I see it constantly. I feel helpless to its light, however brief. It's making me sad each time it comes on. I don't want to look at it but I can't turn away.

I am helpless.

I am afraid.

I am lonely.

A tear rolls down my cheek. But I'm not crying. I wish I could cry, then I could let it all out, but I can't I just push it down and forget.

Knock And It Shall Be Opened Unto You

Two men are sitting in a white room on a bench. To their left is a door. To their right is another man seated on the floor with his back against the wall staring at the door opposite him.

Lyle: How did you get here? (To Stephen)

Stephen: I got run over by a car.

Lyle: I’m sorry, that’s kind of unlucky.

The man on the floor lets out a snort of degradation.

Hopcroft: (Sarcastically) ‘Cause of course the world runs entirely on luck.

Lyle: You wouldn’t say it is?

Hopcroft: I would not. If you go by your logic I should wake up every morning and let out a sigh of relief that all my organs worked during my sleep. But I don’t, because it is not by luck or chance that they are maintained it is because they are programmed that way, just like our lives and deaths.

Lyle: Well it’s a good thing you won’t be waking up anymore then isn’t it.

Stephen: How did you get here then? (To Lyle)

Lyle: Cancer. I just feel bad for putting my wife through what I did. I look back now and wish it had ended sooner.

Stephen: But it had to end when it did wouldn’t you say?

Lyle: Not necessarily, I could have killed myself long before it got really bad, it would have saved her some of the pain she went through in dealing with me.

Stephen: I’m sure you chose the right thing though. Staying with her may have been kinder, so that she got used to the fact that you’d be leaving soon and she got to be with you a while longer.

Hopcroft: I couldn’t help but over hear the crap you lot are talking about.

Stephen: Well that isn’t a surprise; you’re sitting five feet from us.

Hopcroft: And you’re being pathetic there’s nothing you could have done. You were supposed to die when you did and she was supposed to be upset, it’s pointless to worry about something that was out of your control.

Lyle: What? Who are you?

Hopcroft: I am exactly what the universe intended me to be.

Stephen and Lyle stare at Hopcroft puzzled.

Stephen: Why are you here?

Hopcroft: Because of a natural course of events, I am supposed to be here.

Lyle: (Getting angry) Stop being pedantic and tell us how you died!

Hopcroft: I shot myself. After shooting my wife and my two children.

Lyle: So you had a go at me because I felt guilty that I didn’t take my own life for my wife sake, when you felt so guilty about killing your family that you shot yourself!

Hopcroft: I didn’t kill myself out of guilt. Guilt is merely an illusion to make us feel as if we had a choice in our actions. What I did was simply the culmination of a long line of events that happened just as they were supposed to.

Lyle: Hate to break it to you, but you write your own life Hopcroft.

Hopcroft: You are merely a slave to a magician’s illusion. You’re being deceived.

Stephen: I’m not saying I disagree, but who’s the magician?

Lyle: There is no magician.

Hopcroft: He’s through that door waiting to greet us.

Stephen: He didn’t perform a trick on us though. He offered us a deck of cards and we could choose freely whichever card we wanted within that pack.

Hopcroft: Choice is simply part of his illusion. You had no choice in what you chose, it was chosen for you.

Lyle: You’re wrong. I was given the deck. It has many suits and infinite amount of numbers and I am free to choose any card I want.

Stephen: You chose yes, but the cards are offered to you, not given.

Hopcroft: Tis conversation is meaningless. Here we sit on the other side of a door in ignorance waiting to enter into enlightenment.

Lyle: You can’t go in there.

Stephen: You have to stay out here.

Hopcroft: Your reasons?

Lyle: You killed your wife.

Stephen: And your children.

Lyle: You won’t be allowed in, you will have to be punished for the wrong you have committed.

Hopcroft: Punished? Are you mad? I cannot be punished for something I had no control over. I was supposed to do what I did. I could not have done it any differently. How can he punish me for walking down the road he laid?

Stephen: Simple. You play poker I assume?

Hopcroft: On the odd occasion yes.

Stephen: Then you will understand that the cards given to you were what you were given, and the cards laid down were what were supposed to be laid. Their correspondence with each other was entirely fixed and ultimately determined the way in which the hand was going to progress. However, it was how you played that hand that determined your success or not. The importance is behind your betting style; games are won through the tactics of betting not just because of the cards dealt.

Hopcroft: When I sit down to play, and when I stand up at the end I have the same mind-set. I know that what will happen is supposed to happen, and what has happened has supposed to happen. Poker is pointless to me however, I do not dabble in it much.

Lyle: I don’t play poker. But either way, you’re not getting in after what you did. It was a terrible thing that you are held accountable for. I want to go through now. (Lyle stands up and goes through the door)

Stephen: What do you think is in there?

Hopcroft: What I think is irrelevant. It is what is in there that matters and I cannot hope for anything, that would be pointless. What is in there is in there. Nothing more nothing less, and we shall find out when we are supposed to.

Stephen: I feel I want to go too. Are you coming?

Hopcroft: I am not supposed to yet. When I do I shall come through. However, only when I should.

Stephen stands up and goes through the door, Hopcroft is left alone.

Writing On My Arms

You saw me, saw me lying dead on your kitchen floor and you do nothing? You saw me? Well, that says a lot about who you are doesn't it. I look up on you and pity your sad miserable little shit heap of a life. You eat dirt. Grovel in the dirt. You whimper for anything that passes. You want to live a normal life but how can you? How can you trust yourself to follow a set path without tearing it the fuck up.

Go now. Run away. You need to leave before I crack your skull in two. Yeah, I can do that down here. Now fuck off! You think I'm grateful for you being down here with me, think I'm happy you're with me? I fucking hate you!

This one thinks she can slip. This other one looks at me without her eyes 'cause she tore them out. She grabs my hand with the one that isn't slit. Her, her, her! They Surround me with their fucking faces peering into my eyes. They want to know me, they want to ask, they ask themselves "How did she get down here?" wouldn't you like to know.

This girl catches my gaze. I ripped her fucking hair out. From the roots. Made her bleed and everything.

You think I'm fucked up? I'm not here through choice bitches. My daddy didn't like his little girl, thats why I'm fucking here. But look at you.

Tore her throat out.
Hanging.
Drowned.
Smashed skull.
Run over by train.
Hit by car.
Slit wrists.
Hanging.
Suffocation.
Pills.
No eyes.
More pills.
More rope.
Another knife.
Over a bridge.
A pencil in the skull.
Car.
Five more knives.
More fucking pills.
Covered herself in meat and set a dog upon her whilst slashing at her breasts.
More rope.

You all look at me as if your proud of yourselves or something. You live down here in torment you sick fucks. Go on fuck off. There's a corner over there, live in it!

This little girl had no friends back then, and I don't expect your bullshit words now cunts. You need to leave now. Just fucking leave, get out of this fucking place, fuck off! I didn't want you here, you chose it.

Fuck! He's here. Shut the fuck up. "Oi! Bitch, shut her the fuck up!"

I'm Back

"Simon, I want you to look at me. Over here. I'm so glad you came. You must watch this. I don't know whether it will work as I've planned but isn't the view just great? I just can't wait to feel the wind through my hair. Simon, take a step forward, watch me fly!"

He stepped off the roof, and landed twenty storeys beneath me on the cold, hard concrete. But that took a couple of days at least - maybe even a week, I never counted. I just feel bad that everyone saw, well not everyone but enough people to make it spread. He jumped off it, what was he trying to prove?

That was about two years ago now, I think. He's on his feet again now though. He's got some pretty nasty scars, but he knows how to cover them.

He doesn't know why he jumped, even to this day. He still maintains the argument that he wasn't fully aware of his actions and that his thoughts were disturbed in some way. But who thinks about jumping off buildings?

He said that while he was falling, he never thought about the ground as he watched the sunset, and the trees and some of the buildings around him. He told me he just felt like he was flying, soaring through the air without a worry. But, he said that when he looked down he was reminded of what was coming towards me. "It felt as if I hit the ground so many times before I actually did." He revealed to me.

In some ways I pity him, but all the rest I just see him as a fool. He healed for a while actually, got a lot better. He was stuck in a wheel chair so he wasn't able to climb up any stairs, thank God. But last week he began to be able to use his legs again and they took him out of the wheel chair. I never thought he'd do it again.

It was just me to watch this time, no one else saw what he did. I don't think it will be as severe as last time, it was over in a few seconds - which made a change. I'm not going to visit, no one should be allowed to see him. He'll probably try and pervert their minds if they do.

I know there's talk at the hospital of sending him somewhere else when he gets better. Somewhere where he won't get out. I hope they do. For my sake. I can't fall of another building, it hurts too much.

Man Boobs

Run, run fast. Run fast or you'll never get there. Now get low, that's right real low. Lower. Even lower. Perfect. Keep up that speed, even faster if possible. Now as you close in shift your body slightly to the left, that's great. Make sure you can see past. Can you? Okay, now increase your speed. Then...

I know I haven't been the greatest in the world. In fact the word cunt springs rapidly to mind, but I haven't stooped to his level. Folks this is one of the few times recently I'm going to talk straight. Some wanker - big, fat, ugly, supposed to be my friend - tried to get with my girlfriend the other day because she was high and he felt he could take advantage of her. What a fucking cunt arsed motherfucking wanker. The tit, the ass grovelling, cock munching, butt pirate whose only source of mental pleasure is his mother who constantly told him he was thin so now he thinks he's a fucking sex God when really he weighs around twenty stone and has tits that rival some of the girls I've been with, (and I'm a boob guy!) tried to get with my girlfriend.

...Sink your shoulder straight into his ribs. Feel them crack under your hard strong bone. He will fall to the floor. You have done enough. In life you must maintain a level of control. You balanced the equation, never tip it over again. Never give someone a reason to equal the equation. Do just enough. But make sure it hurts. Once he's down walk away, and don't look back.

The Eyes Of Moses

I dove in head first. My face plunged into the black icy cold water. I could see nothing. I could feel nothing but the pounding of my heart behind my ribs. My head emerged from the dark water and I began to swim frantically ahead. As my legs kick harder they hit the hands and the faces of the dead staring up from beneath me. They once too tried to make this journey and failed, they became a slave to this icy dungeon forever.

I would not be brought down however, I will work harder than they did and I will get there. My body is beyond a description of cold that anyone would be able to understand. My mind remains focused though.

I feel a tug around my ankles, most the feeling had gone from my lower extremities but I can tell that it is my ankle that is caught. I try and move on but it is still caught on something. I then feel myself slowly being pulled back. I fight forward but I am being forced under. I kick and kick and kick. Somehow I loosen whatever grip was on me, because I move off closer.

It will be a tremendous day when I reach it, I have secretly watched it for so long, and now it was just my turn to jump for it. I hope it is just as good as it looked from across the lake. I wonder whether I will be disappointed at it's touch. To hold the beautiful green light in my palms should give me the warmest feeling of all after that chilling journey. But we shall see, we shall see.

Mask Over Mind

Today I told a homeless man he was going to die. Now, what happened after that I do not know as I simply walked briskly off to where I was going. I like to think he turned his life around in order to prevent his immanent death, but maybe he simply stayed there and rotted like roadkill on a hot day.

So many things rummage around up there. For someone so helplessly against change I feel I'm doing quite well, I may have slipped up a couple of times but who hasn't, you know. "Well it's a good thing, old Gregory's growing up" Oh what a shame, but I suppose all these inquisitive onlookers into my life have a point, I am growing up. But no, I've always been mature and that, I'm not only just "growing up" I'm just starting to ignore the warning signals in my head that go off every time my life changes slightly causing my stomach to churn and twitch, a tiny bit of perspiration appears on my brow. But I'm practiced enough to not let this discomfort show, so I just carry on as normal.

You can't blame me for not liking change, I mean from an early age I was subtly conditioned to believe that anything that changed was bad, therefore making me develop a problem with it. I was such a fucked up little child. I think the worst part was my confidence, it pushed so many people away because they didn't realise how much help I needed. I was so broken inside.

I feel like one of those robots that are programmed to repair themselves, they fix and fix away at their outer shell and inner wires. But they cannot fix their firmware, so people will look at the robot and assume its fine, nice finely polished exterior, good looking set of wires. And yet within its "brain" it goes against everything it was designed for. Except with me I can hide it, a robot can't.

Holy Fucktard

You know that glove, look back, the white one? Well I just tore it the fuck up. My tongue went in her mouth. There are some that say David conquered Goliath I just say he pussied out. I feel like that version of David right now. What a fucking cunt (language warning).

You moron, can you now accept that your competitiveness is ruining your life? Probably not I'll be fine in the morning, I'll be fine cause I'm an amoral wanker.

SUCK IT YOU FUCKING CUNT!

If you have no idea what I'm talking about right now you should be used to it, it does make sense but only to me because I'm the twat who writes it. All my shit is fantastical, like tripping on shrooms, oh fuck mmmmmm.

Like candy in the morning when coming down from a coke high,

Baby I feel like I'm wrestling with Peter and Adam on the mountain, I'm an eagle, now I'm a little child. You can't touch me you cunt, come on touch me.

I have no heart, it's solid. If any of you feel you are liking me, stop. I'm a prick, far from that actually. God you cunt, wanker, tit, prick (oh look at that punctuation, even when I'm being rude, outstanding) of a bastard you (I haven't used that one yet!).

I'm horrible, run whilst you can.

Persephone

I've thrown myself into a pit. Ironically by choice, usually I fear falling down accidentally. I've warned myself about this feeling, emptiness following the enrichment. This fucking Devil made me warm and then filled me with ice.

I feel like the little child who followed his friends into a cave, equipped with lights and food, but they leave him in the dark and cold on his own. I don't know how to feel right now, hence I'm sitting on my floor writing as a girl lies naked in my bed asking me what I'm doing.

I'm worrying that's what I'm doing. I don't know whether to run back into by shell of inadequacy or to just take it with a pinch of salt hoping for the best. There comes a point where one should raise the question about why I keep writing this stuff, none of you understand me. I suppose I am reaching out for help from the small amount of people who read this blog but I never make a damned bit of sense, stupid defence mechanisms.

I don't know what to do really, I'm supposed to be happy. Maybe I am happy, maybe that's the real problem. This is just my mind realising that it's gone too far down the rabbit hole and now it wants to come out. But that's natural really isn't it? I'm messed up, this is not good what I am doing right now. I feel I'm on the verge of self sabotage, it's definitely within my nature.

Green Light

The uplifting feeling of seeing the light come closer and closer out of the darkness, you're waiting to be accepted into heaven, salvation is at your finger tips. It isn't the light of G-d, you're about to get hit by a car going 80 in a 50 at ten o'clock at night.

Blood crowns your head, bone splits your skin pointing sharply into the night time air. A large lump is on your thigh as your femur was snapped like a twig and proceeded to force up the flesh between your skin and its jagged end.

You're dead, there's no question about that. Imagine if there was a light coming towards you as you enter the pearly gates of G-d almighty. I chuckle at the thought that some would probably run this time for fear they were about to be hit again. But it is disrespectful to laugh at those who die so I'll make it a brief chuckle under my breath so no one looks at me as a sadist as I peer down at the body illuminated by those brilliant blue lights of our emergency service team.

I sound like a right fucked up freak. Strange thing is, is that you would never expect my thoughts to procure such sick disturbing images. Odd really. I don't think these things during my normal life, I don't stare at a person and imagine them sprawled on a road wondering my reaction. I am a fairly balanced individual. Odd really.

I wish you could meet me. That would be my true work of art. To see your face as I am revealed not to be the junkie with a Crack addiction, or the emo sitting in the corner slitting his wrists crying about how little he perceived his mother to love him.

This is me though, what I write is me, I believe completely. Just my exterior doesn't match my interior.

Well, Fitzgerald was right, what a wonderful Green Light that appears to be.








I am happy.

Gambits Of A Pawn

White silk flowed through his hands. Its smooth touch sent shivers up his arm. The material slid around his fingers and covered his hand like an expensive glove. He shuddered nervously as the intimacy increased. Growing faster moving up his arm and stroking his chest. He let the beauty cover his entire body within minutes. He felt whole and complete. Blood pulsated through his veins harder than they had ever done before. He felt his loins swell with excitement at its touch all over his unclothed body.

A few days earlier this scene would have seemed impossible to him as he saw the tiny piece of silk floating effortlessly through the air being carried by the wind. As it moved further towards him, fluttering in the breeze, it grew larger before his eyes. Its rippling body was directed at him, completely undivided attention. He looked at it and wondered whether to reach out or to just move on like he had done so many times before. This piece was special though, unlike the others. It had a sort of transcendental grace unparalleled by other cloths that had floated in his midst before.

So he reached out to it, and here he was, standing bathed in perfect white silk. But it came to an abrupt end as  he felt it slide from his skin just as smoothly as it had done not minutes before. It left him standing naked in the wind. He watched as it glided off, its shape held the identical form of his body. Its white colour seemed to be engulfed by shadow, giving it an odd greyish tinge. He wondered if his eyes were deceiving him. He blinked. The silk was white. It looked like an angel. Standing there, human in structure but without detail. A blank face, smooth with silk. It became grey again, and with a blink it was white.

He could not take a step forward for he feared it would move further away from him. He stayed planted to the floor. Humiliated in his lack of attire in this cold wind that brushed his body as it past. He could see that the silk would return to him and they would become one soon, but would the shadows take it before that could happen. He wondered. He worried.

He felt connected to this material, more connected than he had ever felt before. But this connection came at a price, the price of distance between them. So close yet impossible to reach. He longed for its smooth glide over his skin.

As he shut his eyes he wondered, would the silk be black when he opened them, or would it be its beautiful pure white just like it was when he fist laid eyes on it. He hoped for the latter, but of course there was no way to tell just to wish this silk would not compromise its colour. Just for him.

White Opulence

I hear it in my ears. They're coming for me. I know what they want already. They want my mind. My one true possession and they wish to steal it from me.

Hunters hunt for whatever they can find, but warriors seek out a specific target. They search and destroy. This little boy stands alone frightened. Panicking. But this boy is smart, he knows he needs to pull himself together if he is going to survive. But he's distracted, the wind smashes at his ears, the rain pounds his body, and time rips away his chances.

He gathers himself, but the noises get louder, distracting him more, until he finally breaks into a run. Branches lash against his face, and the mud from the ground flicks up his back. He takes a right deeper into the darkness. There is a moment of silence as he stops, just a moment. His head is clear. But then he is very aware of the fact that he is being followed and he begins to run once more. He runs faster, but he is small so he tires quickly.

Once more he stopped before they got him. They held him for a while. They nearly destroyed him but the boy was strong and prevailed. The sad thing was, was that he was so close to getting out of the woods when they caught him, if he fought through the brambles just a bit harder he would have made it out into the air. Oh, how fresh that air is. Not polluted with the yellow stink of musky roots filling these rows of giants. The air is what choked him down, it made him weaker. That's how they found him.

I continue to run now, I know how to get out. I know how fast these warriors are. I know how long it will take me to be free from this yellowing mist into the white breezes of 1865. What I find now, is that they may catch up with me before I make it. So I have to run faster, work harder, in order that I may escape this oppression before it takes me further down the rabbit whole. I seek the world of white opulence, and that is what I shall get.

As It Unfolds

Silence falls among the young as he surveys this tight line choosing his next victim. His boots thud against the hard ground and his belt knocks against his trouser button. Sweat drips from the head of one child, his palms become clammy as the nerves take over him. He moves to him, grinning, he asked if the child is scared. A faint whimper escapes his lips as he tremors in the presence of this overwhelming figure. He looks past this troubled child and nods his head. The whimpers grow stronger and louder, he is grabbed from behind by two men and dragged away. The line of boys do not seem fazed by this act, and continue to stare ahead obediently.

We, as observers, wish to know what holds them there. What pure form of fear keeps their feet rooted to this dusty ground? They are not afraid, he tells us, as if he can hear our inquisitive thoughts. He comments that they are merely obedient to the cause, his cause. Their purpose in life is to be chosen, supposedly, and he is the judge of these young mouldable creatures. How many more will buckle?

I tell you this as I see it. I am not corrupt with emotion. None of us are. We are very true objective spectators retelling what we have seen simply to tell is. The man to my left has a face as hard as stone, unchanging, unmovable. And the man to my right now stands opposite a boy who begins to look down at his bare, naked and dirty feet.

He is taken too by a nod.

The man to my right continues his work. I have seen him walk the line before. He never grows impatient, he will take as long as the situation needs to find a pure one. The purpose of this scene must not be divulged to those in the public. The purpose of this scene can only be known by few. They know, but only for a split second, by the time they have been dragged away they can no longer remember their plight of selection. The boy not chosen will continue on with his life, unaware of this ritual.

It was a surreal image for me the first time I saw it. I looked down the line at those seemingly fearless faces, knowing one will crack soon enough. They all seemed so willing to partake in a life they did not fully understand. It seemed like madness at first. But it was because of this questioning and wondering that I was chosen. My inquisitive nature, pure through lack of emotion, was just what they needed.

I have seen this scene thousands of times now. The ethical questions raised about what we do can indeed be asked worriedly. But we do this because we are aware of the consequences that no ethical problems can overcome. A life with us is a high life. You could barely fathom such a life with us. Sure they try and stop us, who wouldn't? But what they don't know is that we need to be tried if we are to succeed. It is our gateway and the obstacles raised in our way are what lead us to this mighty seat.

He moved into a little boy who smiles. He smiled. We leaned forward, every single one of us. What was he doing? He stood back carefully. He nodded for a third time, but they were unwilling to approach. He smiled at this child. He turned to us and walked back to my side. The moment had past. The right was back where he should be, and this boy had now been chosen. The others will go unneeded. Now I await when this ceremony is repeated after another century, when this little boy shall stand to my left, the man at my left will be at my right, and he at the right shall be right where I am now. The others will look upon me, I shall look upon the line, and the children will look upon their future.

Racing Days

I wish the Horse and his Boy had an easy choice. But they don't.

Whichever situation they chose will leave them disappointed. Nothing can satisfy them.

Some look upon them and suggest the two will be lonely forever. They say they will never part.

I think the Boy has made his choice.

Knackers Yard

If the Horse was old and decrepit then the Boy would have to make the decision to send the Horse away. In the long term this would benefit the Horse because he would be in pain no more and the Boy would know it would be for the best, but in the short term keeping the Horse would be more beneficial to the Boy because he would be able to make more memories until the Horse was gone.

The Boy does not think that the Horse will be happy in the long term if he is sent to the Girl. Maybe in the short term the Horse will experience some euphoria as well as the Girl but the Boy will sit alone sending away Strangers as they come to see the Horse, but he will not be there. For long term happiness the Boy sees the Horse experiencing this irrelevant amount of happiness, that could be equalled by staying with the Boy, as something that would not be beneficial to the Horses life over time, it will be forgotten. Who knows, when the Girl has no use of the Horse who's to say he will come back? Who's to say the Horse and his Boy will be the same together again? Who's to say Strangers will want to ride the Horse upon his return to the yard?

The Boy believes that for the greatest amount of happiness the Horse and his Boy should not part, but he also feels that the Horse deserves a different kind of happiness, his life needs a change after all these years. Who's to say the Girl will tire over time?

Changing Of The Horse

The Horse cannot be shared, the Girl wants it all to herself and the Boy fears if it is shared the Horse will not take to the Girl and it's allegiance will stay firmly with the Boy. The Boy knows this because he allows others to use the Horse from time to time, they have fun riding it for a while, then when it is time the Horse is returned to the Boy and the Stranger will leave. But the Girls intentions are different. She wishes to have the Horse permanently.

The Boy is still in mixed feelings. The Girl will not always see the Horse, and when she does ride the Horse who's to say that she will enjoy it or if the Horse will ever stop missing the Boy. But if the Horse stays with the Boy then the Horse and his Boy will be happy, but the Girl will not be.

Over the negotiation period the Horse seems to have grown fond of the Girl, but it is not enough to leave the Boy. But how long can the Horse and his Boy continue like this, the string of Strangers wishing to ride the Horse may end, and then what will they have? The Boy will wish the Horse went to the Girl, but by then it will be too late.

The Horse And His Boy

A Girl walks into a Boy's yard and asks to buy his Horse. This Boy has fond memories with the Horse and knows that this Girl will to enjoy the Horse as much as he has and wishes to pass it on. But he does not want to lose the Horse. He wishes to keep what he owns regardless of the joy the Girl will experience from it. He contemplates.

This Boy is yet to make a decision. Which is better, to lose something you love for the sake of someone else's happiness even if it means giving up your own, or keeping your happiness at the sake of someone losing theirs? 

Who Are You?

I'm getting worse, I'm going through an angry phase. It's definitely due to my stress levels rising with the pending exams growing ever closer, and maybe not having a cigarette for a few days is also a contributing factor. But that's only because I'm determined to convince myself that I'm not addicted anymore, which I'm not, as proved by me not wanting one right now. Although my apparent decremented dopamine levels tell me that they may have had a temporary impact on my brain, just a tad, but I just need to push through it. 


I became one of those "keyboard badmen" yesterday, you know when someone gets all loud on the internet to you yet you know if you were standing right next to them they wouldn't dare say any of it. Yeah well, I sort of did that except Im okay with it because it had to be done over the internet. You see, I know I shouldn't mention the "F" Word on here because I may be bombarded by angry blogger addicts who can't believe I would even mention it. I say this because I have got the impression that, even in my limited time here, most bloggers hate Facebook. 


But anyway, I was on Facebook and I get a friend request. I click on it to see who it is. It's a girl. She isn't too bad. I recognise her, is it from work? I decide to add her because I think I know her, and she's hot so why not. So I add her and begin to tear myself apart morally by flicking through her pictures to see if I know her, turns out I don't. I engage in conversation with the girl with a blunt "Who are you?". Nothing. No reply all night. 


So the next day I'm cheating on all the bloggers once more by going onto Facebook and engaging in a conversation with an acquaintance of mine, her choice not mine, and she brings up that she thinks her friend added me. I tell her she did. We converse from here about why added me - strange the girl didn't tell me this herself -  and apparently they told her where I worked and she thought I was hot. Interesting. This is immediately sounding like she's desperate. Desperate. So after hearing this useless piece of information being a desperate little girl one year younger than me she logs on to your Anti-christ Facebook and finds Frenk. She clicks send request. I naively accept and here we are. I just found out why she added me. 


Now, I bring my next actions down to the fact that I have been nicotine starved for a couple of  days now, I have a relatively short fuse anyway and little tolerance for a girl who adds someone out of nowhere and then does not engage in slight conversation explaining why she added him. That to me is just fucking rude. Therefore, I had reason to become this "keyboard badman" that I loath due to the fact that it was because she was adding me on Facebook without knowing me that was fucking me off, and as I do not know her the only was to express my annoyance was through Facebook chat, the device that lets you down more than a Lancia Beta. My words to her are as follows:

"Right listen, I don't know you, you don't know me. Yes I know, you know someone I know and visa versa, but really I couldnt give a shit. Add me when you actually fucking know me."

Now this may have been a bit over the top but I was angry and so far I was the only one who had attempted to communicate with her, and she had added me! Therefore I feel my actions were completely justified. 


I cannot believe I just posted something entirely devoted to shouting at a girl adding me on Facebook. 

The Boy

As I sit there watching, just watching, this young child, who perhaps has potential in his life to do something. As I sit there watching him being abused, two people ganging up on him, shouting, putting him down, making him feel lonely, left out and unnecessary. With each day they all grow, slowly, but the shouting grows quickly, the neglect grows faster, and the boy blossoms into something with character and spirit, a talented young child, but he is insecure, broken and worried, fractured by the cruel actions from those who are supposed to be guiders, loving and a helping hand. With each day the abuse continues, no rewards, no love, nothing. And he doesn’t want to be selfish he doesn’t want to complain, his brain is drilled with negativity, he is surrounded by happiness but he can’t feel any of it because he has been, pushed, blamed, mistreated, neglected, abused, tortured in his small fragile little mind, still growing still learning, and it is now learning that the body it is in is selfish, self centred, because that’s what he has been made to believe. He can’t complain, because it is “his fault” the statement gets stuck in his head, it stops him like a wall trapping him from normality, keeping him locked inside bedlam. Soon all these things said to him blossom into a voice in his head, their voices, those two telling him “no you can’t do that!” he is powerless the voices in his head control him, every move he makes every thought he thinks is controlled by them. As he grows the voices are much more, they invade his thoughts they become him, yet his talent is strong, he can’t see it, I watch as he grows bigger, stronger and more accustomed to the world around him, yet I watch as he fails because he constantly tells himself “I can’t” he doubts, he loathes, he hates himself, the neglect setting in he blames himself for everything, after all that’s what was meant to happen.

As I watch him grow, I watch him realise, he begins to understand, he knows that this isn’t him, that he shouldn’t be like this, he knows who to blame, he is in a battle with the two people, who are blameless, they tell him he is stupid, that it’s his fault, he can’t handle it he acts out, in rages losing things that are most important to him, soon his parents turn, they blame him, the other two are blameless, “it’s not their fault it’s mine” he tells himself, the wall gets wider and taller, as he grows, his self confidence is shattered, he bashes against the wall over and over again, criticised, humiliated, blamed. A brick falls and another, and he can peer through, he sees success he can see a positive image of himself beyond the wall, a talent is revealed, he thrives even more in it, there are no voices there is nothing telling him “you can’t” or “you’re not good enough” he can see now he is not useless. After years more bricks are removed and he can see more of his life, more success, more thriving, and more positivity. No more being held back by himself, he moves forward, he is older now and wiser, he can see clearly, he knows how to do things, but the wall is not gone, he can still not see other things, he is still restricted to believe in himself. The voices will always be there driving him back, stopping him in his tracks making him wonder.

I tell you this only knowing what I remember. I saw this child grow into something that he is not meant to be. I watch him fight every day. I remove the bricks just to give him a helping hand, which he should have received from those who should love him, and because I do this I help him see. Hope is all he needs, belief and understanding that he can be good at what he does, that he can succeed, he can be someone who he wants to be, not someone who they want him to be. He is lost, afraid, alone, and I am the light guiding him away from the dark. Believe in him and he will believe in himself. The bricks have fallen down before, what makes you think they should stop. Make him believe in who he is.

Out, Out, Brief Candle!

I have been stuck with the same boring routine for the last two weeks. I am already losing my mind. I sympathise for farmers, how they go to sleep contented I will never know. I wake up, go downstairs and face leg scratching. I send the puppies outside. Whether I clean up the hideous amounts of shit or feed the puppies immediately proves to be the most interesting dilemma I will probably face all day. In one hand I have ridding myself of an annoying shriek coming from behind the window door with four paws erratically scratching at it calling to there apparent surrogate mother to satisfy the starvation they have been experiencing for little over four hours, and in the other hand I have a worsening smell coming from a small shit filled room that has ben naturally fermenting the odours of these tiny little animals for just about ten hours now. I chose the smell. My nose is apparently more sensitive than my ears. I can handle a shriek, I go to school with British girls who crave attention over their problems remember. But a bad smell no one can get used to - unless you count the farmers who I am yet to understand.

I clear the shit, then I feed - apparently the scratching and screeching gets on my nerves in the morning after a while - following this I get to mopping. When I have done this I go an have a cigarette. This demanding morning situation on my senses, in my opinion, is a perfect advert for how a chemically crammed death stick does seem necessary - after all it's not like I have time to rustle up an emotion balancing smoothie that the health police are so desperately promoting nowadays.

I light up this thin white carcinogen and am immediately being attacked by what some would see as wolverine on speed, but no it is just two puppies who love me unconditionally. Funny way of showing affection don't you think. The only people who would agree with this display of love are those men who smack their wives around each morning where some husbands would just give a delicate kiss. But to each their own.

I go back into the house with my legs and hands suitably shredded, which begs the question, why do I try so very hard to hold aloft this smouldering amber tipped finger to prevent these innocents from harm when all they do is show me the shiny side of their claws? So I'm in the house, cleaning up the mess I made the day before that I was too idol to clean up the previous night due to the suggestion to myself that doing it in the morning will get me in the mood to work. I don't want to work after this, in fact I'm closer to gauging out my organs so I will be taken into intensive care so some sorry prick will look after me for a change. All this cleaning just makes me crave my breakfast even more. A breakfast that I feel I owe myself to spend an hour eating, even though it's a simple bowl of cereal.

Do I shower, or does the thought of standing up for a prolonged period of time while something similar to a jet engine thunders away at my right ear make me want to stay sitting and watch another episode of Top Gear? I think I'll chose the less hygienic route. Just when I thought I procrastinated enough I either get on with some work or an opportunity will present itself to me where I can put off doing work just a bit longer. The nomination could be classed as enough time wasting.

Let's say I chose to work. I sit myself down, get organised. I start working. My mind is swilling around theodicies or models of abnormality depending on which subject I choose to dive into, but my concentration is broken by a worrying snarl. This is the snarl of two, very awake, puppies leaping at each other with their jaws wide open. This is supposedly supposed to be seen as "playing", I'm getting a second opinion. It's hard to concentrate with this noise. So I sit back down and channel hop for a while, jumping up and down to check whether they have fallen to exhaustion yet. When they do I resume my work, completely unfocused because as luck would have it the minute they drop off a programme i want to watch comes on. Great. But I power through and find myself immersed in Freud, Anselm, Joda, Aristotle or anyone else depending on my choice of subject.

However, it's not long until they're awake again and bingo it's nearly two. Time for meal number two. I feed them and if I've gone down the unhygienic route it means I'm probably still in a dressing gown so my second layer of skin is about to be removed from my legs. Ladies forget waxing because I have found a treatment that will solve all your prickly problems, tackle your leg hair at the root by removing your skin, I have just the instruments you need to make this dream come true and they will work on each leg simultaneously. Just fantastic don't you think?

They run around for a bit, take a shit which is either full of the twigs they consume because the four meals a day they receive isn't large enough or half a foam rugby ball they devoured when I wasn't looking. I sit down and my other dog, the one who is supposed to be easy, starts to whine. He has seen something at the end of the garden. Therefore, this calls for the pigeon he is not going to kill to be chased after immediately. So I have to get up, let him out, console the puppies after they scream with terror when he looks at them, let him back inside when he gives up on his murder attempt, and then resume my work. I do quite a lot in the time my whole animal household is asleep. Then when the time comes I feed them again and decide as it is nearing half six I'll feed myself. I eat and am immediately on my feet to feed the other dog at seven.

I have now decided I do not want to work so I sit and watch television, or in cases like tonight have a girl round who I can have a long insignificant chat about things that I really don't give a shit about but I just spend the time wondering whether or not I'd like to fuck her by the end of the night. I decide I'm too tired and send her on her way, but not before irritating this conversational addict with the puppy choir singing "feeding time" conducted by yours truly.

So she's gone. The puppies are in their basket following a little discipline given out in order that they learn to be more well behaved whilst they watch their disposable newspaper toilet being laid out in the corner of the room, they are yet to regard it as necessary and decide to shit all over the floor. I then give my dog a biscuit, which we have now conveniently run out of, and retire to my room to watch a film I won't remember in the morning.

Hopefully, you can now understand why I stop myself from sleeping by writing this post because the idea of having to go through that day again when I wake up is about as daunting as Macbeth's candlelit journey through his castle before he kills the king.

Paradoxical Mind

I felt it, I know what it is; even now as I am writing this I am feeling it, absolutely everything at once hitting me but I don’t know what it is, my mind completely just goes I cannot think of anything because it is spinning round and round, and round and round, repeating itself over and over again, the sounds in my life seem like they are only miniscule yet the sounds in my head are growing increasingly louder, I am completely zoned out and they are cracking me I don’t know what they are and they are driving me crazy, the sound of my life like the ticking of a clock seems so simple, so quiet yet they are screaming at me in my head, lost of any sort of control or any sort of understanding of the biological building blocks which hold my sanity in place; they repeat until I hear nothing I know nothing they just keep going over and over and over, repeating themselves getting louder and louder, everything is surreal and I don’t know what I am writing even to this second I am just writing because I feel I need to remember this feeling. It is utterly terrifying and euphoric at the same time, the feeling that you have lost your sense of control and understanding compels you to find out where it is going and it just ascends and ascends, repeating and repeating until it finally stops, but it hasn’t stopped, the ticking from the clock is still there, its noise has not increased or decreased yet I perceive it in a way that is completely unnatural for the human mind to experience and I feel as if my body has completely separated itself from my mind, my mind is shouting, I am shouting and yet I sit here completely motionless, unaware of my surroundings as it engulfs my entire being, I know it is wrong I know I must not let it take me but I need to know, I need to find an answer for why it is happening so I let it take me allowing me to lose myself from reality allowing me to completely detach myself from myself, the utter...

It has stopped, it’s all stopped just like that, like the flick of a switch, and I got no answers and even now I can’t replicate the feelings I just felt. The way in which I interpreted the sounds of life around me, the ticking of a clock seems like I perceive it normally yet I crave the unsettling ideas I had for it only moments ago. Even now I feel I have written only two lines yet I look up and I am nearing a page of utter madness and insecurity, my mind is calm, completely, the only thing I am grateful for is that I was sitting at my computer and was able to pull myself out of the nonresponsive state I have been experiencing for the last ten minutes, just staring at the letter “f”, hearing the sound I cannot comprehend going round and round, faster and faster, louder and louder, I cannot control it whatever it is, whatever I do, it makes no sense I just have to hope it won’t take me into it so deep that I lose my self, becoming completely and utterly psychotic, and I need it to stop, on its own, forcing myself out of it is impossible and maybe even detrimental to my mental state at this moment in time, so I must allow it to stop and it has, so I am glad for that.

Baby Steps

I would call it writers block, but in truth I'm running words off for this pretty quickly, so I'll settle with unwillingness. That is usually the fuel for procrastination. For one never procrastinates if they are willing to engage in the activity to start with. 


I've been doing well recently as well. Working quite solidly. But now, I just can't be fucked! 


Spoke to my Dad the other day about how much of a cunt he's been being recently. Of course he didn't see it that way. But I said to him, "Dad you chose to have three children."
He looked down at his feet and said "Well..." whilst shaking his head. 


Never been much of a Dad though. Hell, I suppose the man living with me now who recently busted my lip with his fist has been more of a Dad to me than anyone. I shouldn't really say that, it's a bit harsh on my real Dad. Plus Sydney's a cunt. 


No I wasn't a problem child caused by my lack of a father figure growing up, even though I probably should have been. I was actually quite a good child. Glad it ended though. I hated growing up. People used to look down, smile and say "Hello! How're Harry's holidays?" it was so patronising. It didn't help that I was a foot shorter than most women, and my face was cute as a button whereas most the faces I looked at resembled a large portion of shit. 


Yeah so childhood wasn't great. 


Although I have an interesting mind so growing up wasn't all that bad. I watched people, their movements in the day. I analysed their reasoning behind everything. 


But I was never forced into religion. My father's a baptist and my mother's a catholic. I've been baptised, christened and confirmed. I now write to you as a strong atheist, and I've never been happier. Although I do pity the religious ones. I feel they're ignorant. But that's a discussion for a post not so filled already. 

Nothingness

You fall quicker than you expect to, you start off slow so you never really think anything of it but before you can think about what is happening you plummet into the gaping black abyss. You won’t stop for a while, this will make it even more unbearable because of the enigma of it all, the mystery, you anticipate an ending yet it will not happen that way, it never does. You can wish you just hit the bottom sooner because it would be easier that way, much easier than the truth being kept from you, being lied to by your own thoughts, your own feelings deceiving you, making you feel something completely different to the truth. They trick you, send your mind spiralling out of control and you believe them time after time, no matter how much it happens you believe them, because why would they lie to you? When you strike the cold wet floor in this hellish hole you wish you had never landed and you hate yourself for wanting it to come sooner. It chills you to your core. The horror that has hindered any sort of happiness from existing in your mind, it has been pushed out by emptiness. You won’t come back. Not for a long time. You may as well give up hope, because however many times you climb up those walls, reaching towards the dimming light above with bloody cut up hands, however many times you make it to the top, breathing in the clean air with your dust filled lungs, every time you see that person walking towards you and assume they will help, you will find that they will always push you back down and you will be right where you started, in nothingness. There is no bottom, there are no walls, you only create those to help you find an excuse for what is happening to you, but in truth nothing is happening, it is only your mind telling you what you want to believe even if it is not right for you. The reality is, is that none of this is real, there is nothing only nothingness. 

Look At What You're Living In

Just stop. Look around you. Look at everything, the grass or maybe the walls, it might be that special someone who brightens up your day just by smiling. Just look around and take in every single piece of what you see. Touch it, feel it inside you. Don’t shy away from it or neglect its presence, don’t see it as a bad thing and begin to force negativity upon yourself, because none of it is true, nothing you see right now is bad, it’s all meant to be that way. Because that is the beauty of life, there’s a good point to everything. You may not see it, you may think that everything you see is wrong and that it is only causing you pain. But, let me tell you this, it is not causing you pain you are in fact causing yourself pain by not opening up to the possibility that what you are staring at is good and helpful to you. Until you open up to this possibility you will constantly be held back by your own ignorance and that will prevent you making any beneficial move in your life. Would you do that if you really thought about it? And the obvious answer to that is no, so don’t paralyse your ability to be happy by doing it subconsciously, you won’t gain anything from it, you’ll end up segregating yourself from anyone because of a contagious depression which you will cast upon a room and people won’t want to be around that. So stop. Look around you. Look at everything, the grass or maybe the walls, it might be that special someone who brightens up your day just by smiling. Just look around and take in every single piece of what you see. Then think, is it really all that bad?

Beating Go The Drums

Beating go the drums. Beating, beating go the drums.

I walk fast, wind high blows my hair into my face.

Blue sky, dash across the road no change in my pace.

I'm not living on the edge but it's better than the slums

Of my mind I cant seem to escape from.

Even when I sleep black holes is all see,

And when I'm awake dead I wish to be.

Irritated mostly by the same constant song.

Beating go the drums. Beating, beating go the drums.

Standing in this wood all alone staring at the trees.

Never further from death do I wish to be.

Feeling odd like a baby sucking both my thumbs.

As I look into the distance the sun begins to set.

Darkness will be upon me before I make it home,

But nothing really matters so long as I'm alone

And until then I may as well forget.

But beating go the drums. Beating, beating go the drums.

This beat goes round my head driving me insane,

Never from this point will I ever be the same.

I cannot rid this sound, won't escape the wretched drums.

You can call me from afar, you whisper right up close,

But none of these sounds will make my train of thought.

These drums occupy my mind now, leaving me distraught

Because when I see a bird its song I miss the most.

Beating go the drums. Beating, beating go the drums.

Beating go the drums. Beating, beating go the drums.

Joy To The End

Joy is a lie; life exists upon the false pretence that we may find Joy. Living holds no Joy. The only way we stay sane is by wondering whether the next second, minute or hour will bring us out of the suffering we have to endure each and every day. But soon we realise, when nothing changes after a day, week or month that it is endless, the misery impacts on us and there is nothing we can do to stop it. We can only push it away to the back of our minds and pretend it’s not there like a child in the corner. Sure, we can put on a smile and laugh at the pathetic jokes that we know are not funny. But soon we will have to wake up to our reality and realise that we are running from the fact that there is nothing to laugh or smile about because nothing is funny or worth being happy about, and then it all crashes down around us, the misery, despair and hopelessness, when we realise there is nothing to make us feel warm inside, that we are just animals in a sick masochistic time, it hurts just like everything else we encounter in this life. Only in death can we escape from this shell of sorrow. But why would we escape, born in an optimistic society, we look to the future as if it beholds wonders and only until our flesh and our biological forces give out on us do we realise that there was nothing important in this life to keep struggling on for. So we End. The only regret is that we didn’t End sooner. But at least we End.

Sweet Lamenting

I was once lying down on a sofa. Someone who knew me came and rested their hand gently on my arm. I could not see their face by eyes were shut. I felt their touch for more than an hour. With the poisoning effect of the drugs I had just taken impairing my ability to move or even open my eyes, I was locked in a prison. But one good thing came out of it, I heard things in a completely different way, it was spectacular, all the usual shit that goes round in my head wasn't there anymore it was just filled with the sound of a girl running around shouting my name, and it filled my thoughts like a song.

The hand on my arm felt cold yet comforting, and the song continued. I listened for what felt like days, cliche intended, and it just kept mounting up on my mind. What was this girl doing? Worrying so much about such a small thing. Sure I was passed out on the sofa, with the remnants of my meatball sub in a bowl near me with other crap around it, but it wasn't like I was going to die. I had too much weed for crying out loud get over it. Hysterical bitch.

I was glad the hand was there though, there was such a relief that someone could care without showing it to the entire fucking world. She ran around and ran around and her laments turned sour like milk in the sun. She wasn't doing this for me, she wasn't doing this because she was worried, she wasn't doing this because she felt she ought to. The fucking bitch was exploiting my temporary paralysis to fuel her attention-seeking addiction. She was doing it for her! Running around like a crazy fucking chicken shouting to the heavens about how upset she was made people look at her and care for her. What an attention-seeking whore. She'd be the worst prostitute really, would you want to pick someone up off the side of the road who is screaming "Fuck me, fuck me! My daddy never loved me!" I mean come on, I'd want to see a girl smoking a cigarette sitting down, and as she sees me she stands up and looks at me with those narrow eyes filling me with intoxication. It's subtly that counts, just like the hand resting gracefully on my forearm, not forcing love but still giving it gently so it is accepted well.

The bitch still hasn't stopped by the way. She still hasn't fucking stopped. It's me for crying out loud I'm no Denzel Washington, I'm just that guy. No need to run around screaming "Danny's Dead! Danny's Dead!" because he's not, and you don't care anyway. All you care about is knowing people's eyes are on you, that people are thinking about you, that everyone's saying "How caring are you.". Skank whore.

The hand hasn't moved an inch, it was remarkable. I feel myself coming too, my leg has a bit of a twitch. My eyes flutter a bit. Slowly opening, but they sting as the light comes flooding in. I look up to see who this caring person who sat by me all this time is.


There's no one there.


No one had their hand on me.

Jabs

What a fucking cunt. It's clear I needed help, I asked for it, you agreed and then you fucking bail the day before. What the fuck am I going to do now?

Seriously I'm fucking sick of people letting me down, I mean if you say your going to do something you fucking do it, if you can't do it just fucking tell me I'm not going to get angry. I'm going to get angry if you tell me the day before that you can't do it. Especially with that bullshit I mean what's going on there, you honestly expect me to believe that?

Make of this what you will cunts I needed to waste time while my foods cooking, and I'm pissed the fuck off!