17:08 and infernal silent ticking

I now hold — at arm’s length, dis­gus­ted and revol­ted, like a piece of vile, decay­ing flesh ripped from a cada­ver — the real, genu­ine fear of los­ing my mind to such a degree that I can no longer trans­fer thoughts into speech, that the stumble over words becomes an end­less fall, that any attempts at coher­ence des­cend into noth­ing but gib­ber­ish, noth­ing but ram­bling in con­tam­in­ated tongues.

11:42 and coiled in hatred

Last night: dreams, vivid dreams, almost tan­gible in their cuts and bruises, their wounds and blood­i­ness. Dreams of such awful, sick­en­ing viol­ence. Per­pet­rated by me. Com­mit­ted by my own hands, my own sick mind, my own vile intent.

I know they’re only dreams. I know I could never be viol­ent. I know that I abhor viol­ence. Because I have exper­i­enced viol­ence, I never wish to mete out the same to any individual.

And yet, this morn­ing I still feel sickened to the core. I need to scrub myself with wire wool. I need to be clean.

I need to be renewed. I need to be renewed. I need to be renewed. I need to be renewed.

I am tired of this corpse.

17:10 and haze and hazy and hazier

I am — fool­ishly, irra­tion­ally, unwisely — remem­ber­ing the rare week­ends of the nearer as well as the more dis­tant past when long sum­mer days seemed relax­ing, almost care­free, bor­der­ing on bliss­ful. Warmed out­side by the sun, yes, but — and more import­antly for me — warmed inside by com­fort, an under­stand­ing pres­ence, lazily mur­mured con­ver­sa­tions sud­denly break­ing into riot­ous laughter, shared thoughts. To be with someone who gets it, who can share their world with me a while as I share mine in return. Someone or some oth­ers. Companionship.

I am try­ing not to miss this, to recall this, to want more of this. I am fail­ing appallingly and abjectly.

The noise, the smells, the heat, even the very feel of sum­mer car­ry­ing on out­side is infuri­at­ing me, filling me with impot­ent rage and gib­ber­ing anger, crush­ing me with point­less­ness. I want the dark, I want to crawl away, I want to sleep and sleep and sleep some more and for­get, for­get, for­get. For­get some more. For­get entirely. Erase.

I am tired of myself. Exhausted with myself. It’s all me, me, me — not out of selfish­ness, I prom­ise you, but because there is only me, me, me. My voices (though not my voice, since I am once again in the pro­cess of for­get­ting how to speak). My thoughts. My mind. My fail­ing brain. My picked clean/picked bloody flesh.

But sleep isn’t com­ing, and neither is forgetting.

Please help me forget.

***

Foot­note: There are occa­sions when I want to throw cau­tion to the wind and send this site — well, a link to this site — to a short, select list of people who should know, who should remem­ber, who have shared pri­vacy, a room, a pres­ence with me in the past but now seem all too keen to remove that aber­ra­tion from their minds. People whom I selfishly want to wit­ness this dis­astrous men­tal decline and the cor­res­pond­ing fear that I don’t know where it will end. People who have claimed in the past to ‘get it’, but — for all their warm words — clearly don’t. I res­ist, though. Psy­cho­lo­gical revenge isn’t my style. Revenge of any kind isn’t my style. If it were, I would have engaged in it when I was barely aged double fig­ures. I didn’t, of course, being far too much of a cow­ard. And my cow­ardice con­tin­ues. It has done for over thirty years. My cow­ardice is a major con­trib­utor towards the place, the stasis, in which I now find myself. Cow­ard, cow­ard, fuck­ing vile cow­ard. Get out of my fuck­ing sight, you piti­ful, dis­gust­ing, despic­able, filthy COWARD.

17:43 and without propulsion

Very sens­ibly, I don’t drink alco­hol these days. Maybe once a year, if that. For that reason, because of the infre­quency, the res­ults are always dread­fully ugly.

But, right now, I badly need to clear my head. My thoughts have been even more of a jumble this past week — if that’s pos­sible — and my reac­tions and brain power have con­sequently been fur­ther deadened — if that’s pos­sible too. I feel the desire to get drunk, in the mis­taken belief that the burn of alco­hol will provide some tem­por­ary oblit­er­a­tion and some­how ‘reset’ me.

I know very well that it won’t, of course. So I’m res­ist­ing. I won’t open the dust-covered bottle of cheap, harsh super­mar­ket bar­gain brand vodka that’s been stand­ing in the corner for months on end. I won’t. I don’t want to feel even more dis­gust­ing than I cur­rently do.

Yet still I want my head to clear. I crave dis­trac­tion, an escape. Sleep isn’t provid­ing it. Music means noth­ing to me. Films don’t engage. I don’t have the con­cen­tra­tion to escape into a book. I have no ima­gin­a­tion in which to hide away. Even the mild­est drugs aren’t avail­able to me. My mind is blab­ber­ing and jab­ber­ing and gib­ber­ing too much to allow me to attempt any kind of ama­teur med­it­a­tion. And on med­ical orders, I am not sup­posed to be work­ing for at least a fort­night (though it would have been a month had it not been for my res­ist­ance and the simple fact of fin­an­cial necessity).

I know what’s wrong, of course. I know it.

In my last post, I said “I’m going to fight and I’m going to tell the truth”. I stand by that state­ment. I meant it and I still mean it. And yet, even to the hand­ful of people read­ing these pages, I can’t admit to the truth of why my head needs clear­ing, empty­ing, renewing.

21:01 and maybe it’s the heat

I am entirely out of energy — and that’s not just related to the heat­wave cur­rently roast­ing the UK; no, this is men­tal exhaus­tion lead­ing to phys­ical exhaus­tion — yet, curi­ously, I just man­aged to give myself a rous­ing speech, an invig­or­at­ing talking-to, in which I told myself that I am going to fight.

I told myself, too, that I am going to stop lying just to put oth­ers at their ease, to avoid rock­ing the boat, to keep things ‘nor­mal’. I’ve been lying to pro­tect oth­ers since I was six years old — that’s nearly thirty-eight years of art­fully con­struc­ted untruths — and I’m tired of it. So tired. I have no lies left to tell, I’m all out.

I’m going to fight and I’m going to tell the truth. No, not about everything — I’m not that brave (read: fool­hardy) and, well, there are cer­tain truths that could do far too much dam­age — but about the things that mat­ter to me in the here and now, in the near future and in the long-term yet to come.

I’m tired of being dis­missed because, appar­ently, “I just don’t under­stand”. I am not a child. I am not a forty-three year-old child. I am not imma­ture. On the con­trary, I’ve been an adult since before my age reached double figures.

I know this is risky, that it could — if that’s even pos­sible — leave me yet more isol­ated than I am now; yet more alone than I’ve gradu­ally become over the last three or four years. But I’m past caring. I have almost noth­ing left to lose.

I can’t go back to pre­tend­ing just for the sake of others.

21:47 and disconnects at dusk

  • I just tried watch­ing a TV pro­gramme for about the first time in a month. Not only could I not con­cen­trate on it in the slight­est, but I found it almost phys­ic­ally pain­ful, both visu­ally and aur­ally. The bright col­ours, the noise. I worry about what’s hap­pen­ing to my once rel­at­ively act­ive mind that even a simple tele­vi­sion show proves too men­tally taxing.
  • I’ve been too tired to sleep prop­erly for about three days.
  • I fool­ishly broke one of my self-imposed rules today. One of the rules I told myself to live by now that I’m try­ing to con­vince myself that this is my new nor­mal and I had bet­ter grow to abide it if not to love it. Five and a half hours after break­ing that rule, I pro­foundly regret it.
  • I am drown­ing in occa­sional fits of vicious, vile, unspeak­able jeal­ousy. I loathe jeal­ousy as an emo­tion, yet I am start­ing to give into its tempt­ing, sick­en­ing deceits.
  • Finally. Finally. I am tired of tread­ing on egg­shells, tired of avoid­ing all those sub­jects, tired of always being So Fuck­ing Con­sid­er­ate. You may think con­sid­er­a­tion and humil­ity are laud­able qual­it­ies — I do too, I guess — but they get you kicked repeatedly in the fuck­ing teeth, they really do. But I have to be con­sid­er­ate and not say what I mean because it will embar­rass you or because you’ll shuffle uncom­fort­ably in your seat or get up and walk away or just not respond or or or or. And yet you’re always the first to say we should speak our minds. I don’t have much of this mind left, yet I’m try­ing to speak it here. So why not try listening?
  • I need to sleep. I hope I can. My bed stinks of sweat and failure.

18:12 and no pause for thought

This morn­ing, I awoke and did the star­ing thing. The star­ing thing. Where I just briefly look at the wall in front of me, but then for­get to stop look­ing. No idea what I’m think­ing. If, indeed, I am even think­ing. Before I know it, an hour has passed. Though I’ve always been sus­cept­ible to ‘holes in time’, I don’t want “he stared at walls for hours on end” to be in my obituary.

I said — at least I think I said, I for­get, I can’t be bothered to look and I haven’t read a single post back to myself since I star­ted gou­ging the blood and gristle from this putrid open wound onto these clean white pages — I said, I think, that I am try­ing to accept this. Whatever this is. Try­ing to accept that this life is the new nor­mal, that I should get used to it because, while the hope of change may exist, hope of change is what hap­pens in pop psy­cho­logy manu­als, not real life.

So I am try­ing to accept this new nor­mal, try­ing to live with it. The prob­lem — based cer­tainly on this week and prob­ably many weeks before it — is that I don’t want to accept it and I cer­tainly don’t want to live with it, because I find liv­ing only with myself and thus, inev­it­ably, within my own head to be the most excru­ci­at­ing and unbear­able thing I have ever had the dis­pleas­ure to experience.

And I don’t see any solu­tion to all this, save for the obvi­ous one.

01:24 and the ice pick assassin

Today an old face, a famil­iar name, appeared in my inbox — a wel­come relief amidst the usual spam and work-related mes­sages. I genu­inely smiled in recog­ni­tion, felt a brief flicker of some­thing the aver­age human with aver­age social con­nec­tions might feel — some­thing approach­ing warmth — before even this nas­cent flame was snuffed out in the space of a couple of para­graphs. After the friendly open­ing, the miss-you-we-must-catch-up-soon-just-been-so-busy spiel (busy? busy? you mean, you’ve been busy for three years? really?), it arrives: the favour, the request, the you’d-be-really-helping-me-out. Pur­por­ted friend­ship = fin­an­cial transaction.

I raged. I had to, I needed to rage. In (vir­tual) pub­lic, too, though I shouldn’t have done. Now, right now, when I feel the most unwanted I’ve ever felt, when I have all the self-esteem of a piece of shit stuck to the bot­tom of a shoe, when I crave some warmth to ease this sick­en­ing cold that’s seiz­ing up my soul, some touch to lessen my skin hun­ger, some pres­ence and human inter­ac­tion to just make me feel nor­mal — now, right now, a famil­iar but long lost face emerges for the sole pur­pose of want­ing some­thing, because I’m clearly the last port in the storm. Not because they have any desire to talk to me, see me, inter­act or spend time with me. None of those. No, just because of money, because I’m an easy touch, because I have gone to the ends of the Earth for friends many a time — and they know it.

It’s dif­fi­cult — and for me, impossible — not to think the worst of myself at such moments. You might assume, given the tone of entries here over recent months, that I’m not even mak­ing the slight­est effort to tell myself that I’m not the vile, despic­able, hideous, filthy cunt I cur­rently see in the mir­ror every single fuck­ing unbear­able day, someone not even worth push­ing to the ground to beat, kick, molest and defec­ate upon. But I am. I’m genu­inely try­ing. I haven’t suc­ceeded yet and, if I’m hon­est, I may not — but I am mak­ing the effort. 

Then an ‘old friend’ — someone with whom I once shared mean­ing­ful con­ver­sa­tions, warmth, con­fid­ences — comes along and pisses on it. Pisses on even that slight­est attempt to pull myself up to at least ground level. No higher. I’ve long given up the idea of scal­ing the heights. But appar­ently even crawl­ing on the ground is a sign that I’m get­ting above my place in life. Lovely to see you. Miss you lots. Must meet up soon. Mwah mwah mwah. Blah de blah de blah oh god how much of this smooth talk do I have to give the sick­en­ing, abject cunt before I can demand some­thing from him and then not speak to him for another three years?

***

I retreated back into work — another 13-hour day — to lick my wounds and try to for­get. But I had to stop a couple of hours ago due to exhaus­tion. CSS was just becom­ing mon­key gib­ber­ish in front of my eyes. I couldn’t pur­sue design and logic with my eye­lids hanging like lead weights.

I retreated fur­ther, back to a time I know I prob­ably shouldn’t recall, but couldn’t help myself. Because I needed solace, because I needed com­fort. A tumul­tu­ous period of a few months, not even a year, when I felt alive. Genu­inely alive. Des­pite all the usual uncer­tainty that was swim­ming around me at the time, I felt I could cope with it, maybe even beat it and emerge vic­tori­ous, all because I felt alive, wanted, under­stood. The exper­i­ence of meet­ing a like mind. Thought-provoking con­ver­sa­tion, a lack of inane small talk, phant­asmagoria, ideas that made my mind feel elec­tric, excite­ment, child­ish stu­pid­ity at times, shar­ing secrets, the sen­sa­tion of being at one against the world. Warmth and touch? Yes, that too, but they weren’t the import­ant aspects, and cer­tainly not as import­ant as all the other sen­sa­tions and exper­i­ences. Not as import­ant as being under­stood and wanted. Like minds, as I say. 

I shouldn’t have been recall­ing any of it. I should have kept those memor­ies firmly locked away. But I caved to tempta­tion, to a need for a little bliss­ful warmth, to remem­ber­ing some­thing that, in ret­ro­spect, I should have real­ised at the time was actu­ally import­ant to me, but which I dis­missed as just a bit of fun because — because of what? — because of bravado, I guess. Bravado and fear in equal meas­ure. And because I was aston­ished to be liked that much, aston­ished to be wanted — I felt almost as if they’d mis­taken me for someone else and would soon come to their senses. 

Why did I let my inde­cision and my dis­missive ness drift? I should have spoken out. I should have com­mu­nic­ated. I should have seized the moment. I shouldn’t have let the cow­ard in me rob my voice and strike me silent. I should have said the words I knew were there behind my eyes, even from early on. That here was someone who meant a great deal to me, someone who though I didn’t yet EVOL, I was cer­tain was becom­ing that way for me. 

When the cow­ard finally found his tongue again, years and months after, it was too late. Fool. Fuck­ing fool. Fuck­ing, fuck­ing fool.

Never say those words again. Never utter that phrase again. You’re not worthy of it. You don’t deserve it. This — all this and noth­ing — is what you deserve. Drown in it, you filthy, despic­able, hideous, worth­less scum, you vile piece of shit. This and this and this and breathe in the stench. Sleep to for­get for a little while. Unless.

02:01 and fluently talking to the void

I meant to go to sleep four hours ago. Get a proper night’s rest after a near unbroken 11-hour work­ing day. Instead, I’ve been lying here seek­ing solace in the voices of people passing in the street five floors below, while think­ing about the con­ver­sa­tions I wished I’d had and now never will, the con­ver­sa­tions I’d still like to have.

Where have you been?
What did you do?
And why?
Did you know I was here?
I said: did you know I was here?
Can we go back to…?
What? When? How?
How it was?
Do you want that?
Do you think I want that?

And these ques­tions could apply to more people than I at first thought. As my thoughts went on, the names piled up even as the faces didn’t always form what I could remem­ber. The little I could recall. I’ve for­got­ten what you look like. And you. And him. And her. So how can you be leav­ing gaps when I don’t know the shape of your face, the look in your eyes, the smile on your lips, the lines on your brow.

But do you remem­ber me? Are you lying awake with these thoughts, I wonder?

If you are, then there’s one thing you should know above all else. This one thing.

I’m broken. There’s no quick fix. Pos­sibly no fix, irre­par­ably dam­aged. But I’m not ask­ing you to repair me, make me whole, put me back together. None of that. I wouldn’t, I couldn’t ask that. All I wish for is that you don’t look away as I apply another set of stick­ing plasters.

10:16 and an absence of tongue 

First thing this morn­ing, work-related phone call. Cli­ents nor­mally com­mu­nic­ate by email, so this was a shock. Needed to have proper con­ver­sa­tion, but couldn’t find words and sen­tences. Tongue wouldn’t move, mouth wouldn’t shape. Lost power of speech com­pletely. Only unre­lated words came to mind — ‘dog’, ‘weather’, ‘microbe’, ‘ges­tic­u­late’, ‘broom’ and oth­ers I now can’t recall. Unnerv­ing exper­i­ence. Unset­tling.   Mustn’t lose capa­city to speak nor­mally and imme­di­ately. Must not. Must. Not. Must remem­ber to put on an act, play a part, adopt a role, wear a mask, pre­tend to social con­fid­ence, pre­tend that people are second nature to me. 

23:09 and the man you never heard of

I do not want to be reflect­ive any more
Envy­ing and des­pising unre­flect­ive things
Find­ing pathos in dogs and undeveloped handwriting

I read my first Louis Macneice poem in 1989, thanks to dis­cov­er­ing one of his col­lec­tions in the Sixth Form lib­rary when I was sup­posed to be revis­ing for my A-levels. I loathed the poems that very obvi­ously rhymed. The ones that didn’t, how­ever, were sub­lime. I loved the way in which Macneice’s lan­guage was unusual, but not impen­et­rable. I loved the way he made the mundane seem oth­er­wise, while the more fant­ast­ical flights still kept a tether to some kind of real­ity. I loved the way he took troub­ling ideas and presen­ted them with an almost formal, ana­lyt­ical distance.

To those who knew him for all that mess in the street
This man with the shy smile has left behind
Some­thing that was intact.

Loved? No. I still love. I always have. Four of the poems, in par­tic­u­lar, marked me deeply. I recall read­ing them over and over, learn­ing them by heart. That quar­tet stayed with me, and at vari­ous points over the last twenty-six years I’ve pulled one or other of them from the dusty men­tal shelves because they seemed to offer some insight into what I was then experiencing.

Let them not make me a stone and let them not spill me.
Oth­er­wise kill me.

But never all four at the same time. Never that. Never did I reach the point where I felt so over­whelmed and crushed by cir­cum­stance, real­ity, unreal­ity, emo­tion, need, impossib­il­ity, fear, inef­fect­ive­ness, want, hatred, self-loathing, anger, upset, memor­ies, so exhausted by a world that was suddener than we fancy it and where I was finally con­scious of all [I] lacked that I needed all these pieces of verse. To cling to? To steer with? For empathy? I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. I just know, that’s all.

World is cra­zier and more of it than we think,
Incor­ri­gibly plural. I peel and por­tion
A tan­ger­ine and spit the pips and feel
The drunk­en­ness of things being various.

Until today. Until now. Until the moment when I feel as if I’ve been liv­ing the thoughts of all four poems at the same time. As Macneice him­self put it, the pen­cil point had obvi­ously broken.

00:28 and a bloody orifice

I’m not sure what I’m doing any­more, and I’m pretty sure that whatever I’m not sure I’m doing I am also doing it wrong. 

I caved, dear reader. In ways I shouldn’t have. 

I don’t mean to be cir­cum­spect — con­sid­er­ing what I’ve been pub­lish­ing here, it’s a bit late for my once char­ac­ter­istic obfus­ca­tion now — but I still retain a degree of per­sonal shame, believe it or not. And I am ashamed that I caved, that I gave in. 

I’m sup­posed to be attempt­ing strength, accept­ing that this abnor­mal­ity is now my life, that it needs to become my nor­mal­ity. But I failed. I caved. Pathet­ic­ally caved. 

I have, once again, for­got­ten how to speak. I talked to myself earlier and only gib­ber­ish poured out. Speak­ing in tongues, but without the pres­ence of a mys­tical God. 

I so des­per­ately need to be held. Not to be told that it’s all going to be okay while I’m held. Just held, in silence, while I reac­quaint myself with com­fort­ing warmth. 

I don’t mean to be needy. I prom­ise. But I’m run­ning on empty. Thr fuel tanks are dry. The only sound is the noise I make as I hit the sides of my metal cham­ber, while wait­ing to be reimmersed.

I crave nor­mal­ity. I crave being held. I crave the peace of just being. 

00:53 and the debasement is complete

Just one more thought. If only because it scares me, naus­eates me and yet, well, I have a hor­rible, dark sense that some­where in my warped, dam­aged psy­cho­lo­gical make-up it com­forts me too. And I’m not sure I should try and sleep with such a thought in my head. 

That per­son. Going back. That per­son. Go fur­ther back. Yes, that person. 

That per­son may have had their fin­gers on my flesh when they shouldn’t have. And where they shouldn’t have. That can­not be denied. But at least it was touch. At least that per­son wanted to touch me. That’s some­thing. I des­pise myself for the fact that it’s some­thing. But it is, well, something. 

And that’s the sick-minded fuck I’ve become. 

00:02 and there goes another one

Site launched. 15-hour work­ing day. Exhaus­tion. Exhaus­tion but not think­ing. Not much think­ing, any­way. And as little think­ing as pos­sible is good. Yes? Is it? I don’t know. Part of me thinks so, part of me thinks not. I don’t want the thoughts, but I don’t want to be thought-dead either. (Or “thought dead”, but that’s another mat­ter, another pos­sib­il­ity.) And when I’m not think­ing I find myself per­il­ously close to thought-death. I used to have a brain, you know. Used to. Brain. Brain? Hello? Hello, are you there, brain?

Given my state of mind, a state of mind when hours should be crawl­ing and every minute seem­ing inter­min­able, days are passing sur­pris­ingly fast. There goes another one. Whoosh. Gone. Too fast, maybe. I look back ten years, nar­row my eyes and try to see twenty years into the past, and think of all the time wasted by that 33-year-old, that 23-year-old. I don’t want to be the 53-year-old middle-aged loner in a dilap­id­ated flat, mum­bling to him­self and pick­ing at his fes­ter­ing flesh, who thinks back ten years and won­ders where all the time went — even if some of it was spent mak­ing pretty web­sites for people in order to keep a roof over my head.

(I feel like giv­ing up. I won’t give up. Yet.)

Because, as a friend — another per­son whose name is now just a memory in my phone list — once said to me, “A job doesn’t love you back”. It’s true. It provides con­tent­ment. Sat­is­fac­tion. A task well done. All that. But this or that person’s shiny new web­site isn’t about to reach out from bey­ond the screen and give me the warmth I miss, the warmth I desire, the com­pan­ion­ship I miss, the pres­ence I need.

I’d stop read­ing this bull­shit now, if I were you. It’s sound­ing naus­eat­ingly self-pitying, to the extent that I want to stick my fin­gers down my throat so I can spew vomit over my hands to stop them typ­ing. And this, this is noth­ing but a tedi­ous diary entry. I don’t want to be a tedi­ous diar­ist. Fuck it, how­ever, because I’m immensely tired, immensely aim­less, and my skin is genu­inely crawl­ing and flak­ing with the effects of this sol­it­ary life. Is there any­body out there, I won­der? I’m not sure any­more. There are worse side effects too, but I don’t wish to dis­cuss those, because even I have stand­ards of pri­vacy and com­mon decency. So let’s just say that I cur­rently look like some kind of mon­ster risen from the nox­ious, sod­den marshes, and leave the descrip­tions at that. Tomor­row, I will shower, be refreshed. If I sit under the water long enough, I might even be remade as a new person.

I’ve taken to remem­ber­ing. Too much remem­ber­ing. The past hurts, yes, but the future is too ter­ri­fy­ing to con­tem­plate and the present is simply too tedi­ous to bother with exist­ing. There’s too much of me in it. Me, every­where I look. Me, every inhal­a­tion and exhal­a­tion. Me. Me. Me. Sod­ding me. I am so tired of this wit­less, vile, despic­able me. I want me to take me out into a back alley and stick a nail-gun in the side of his head. I want me to push me to the ground and kick him repeatedly in the stom­ach until he’s clutch­ing it, chok­ing, and then I want me to kick me in the face. Again and again and again. Until my head is like a lump of rot­ten meat. Then I want to drop a match on me and set me alight. Watch me burn into so much gristle and frazzled flesh. Die, die, die you fucker, die. Die. Die. Die. For everyone’s sake, just hurry up and die. You want to any­way, so what the fuck is stop­ping you?

I hope you stopped read­ing when I sug­ges­ted. I told you. A diary. A naus­eat­ing diar­ist. This stuff comes pour­ing out like a sud­den release of efflu­ent when… when what? When. When. When. Oh, I don’t know. When you have noth­ing more to live for, I guess.

Maybe I should spend tomor­row, today, whatever day it is, stand­ing on my bal­cony, stripped stark naked, maybe smeared in my own excre­ment, shout­ing “I’M UP HERE! I EXIST! I FUCKING WELL EXIST! I FUCKING WELL EXIST, YOU CUNTS! I FUCKING WELL EXIST! I DO! HOW CAN I PROVE IT? HOW CAN I PROVE I EXIST? WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO PEEL OFF SOME FLESH, PUSH IT THROUGH THE CHICKEN WIRE SO IT FALLS ON YOUR HEADS? OR MAYBE YOU CAN COME UP HERE AND PROD ME LIKE A WOUNDED ANIMAL? THAT WOULD REMIND BOTH OF US THAT I EXIST, AT LEAST. HELLO? CAN YOU HEAR ME DOWN THERE? WELL? CAN YOU? DON’T I EXIST THEN? FUCK ME, EVEN I DON’T KNOW.”

You’d never tell, would you, that apart from the per­son I have to see, and apart from a few gro­cery deliv­ery drivers, I haven’t seen any flesh and blood in six weeks, would you?

It’s Thursday now. Let’s sleep for a while in our own stink­ing sheets, then wake and see how quickly today passes in a blur of noth­ing­ness. Diary ends. Go to sleep, An Unre­li­able Wit­ness, you pathetic cunt.

00:29 and you’re all talk

Go on, then. Babble, curse, cuss and dribble. Scream, shout, gabble, growl. Speak hushed or roar. Roar, bite, hiss, grumble. Go on. Do it. Go on all fuck­ing night for all I care. I’m bey­ond. I mean, yes, I can hear you. Of course I can hear you. OF COURSE I CAN FUCKING WELL HEAR YOU, YOU SWARM OF MERCILESS FUCKING CUNTS. OF COURSE I CAN HEAR YOU. HOW COULD I FUCKING WELL NOT? Babble babble, whis­per whis­per, shout shout, go on go on go on go on never shut up because you’re not going to shut up, are you are you are you so I might as well may as well what what what because you like the echo I give you all empty here so a lovely fuck­ing echo. Fill me full of your fuck­ing debil­it­at­ing hate and whatever else you have to shove in every ori­fice and every last depleted brain cell and every­where because, oh I don’t know, I don’t care. I’M JUST ONE BIG FUCKING GLORIOUS EMPTY ECHO TO YOU, AREN’T I? I’m not listen­ing. I am listen­ing. I’m not listen­ing. I am listen­ing. Both and none. Both and none, you hear? If I mat­ter a jot, leave me, please. Please go. Just for a little while. I don’t expect forever, I’m not that hope­ful, but just a short while. Please.

21:13 and the seethe of nations

I’m angry. Furi­ous. Pulsing with rage. Over what? What’s happened to cause this? Today? Noth­ing. That’s what. Noth­ing today. This is anger, fury and rage with no imme­di­ate cause, no mem­or­able start date and seem­ingly no pos­sible end date. It just hits. Every now and then. I become incap­able, phys­ic­ally and men­tally, due to the hatred fes­ter­ing inside me. Even the stand­ard tac­tics that I’ve prac­ticed over many years to expunge these emo­tions — smash­ing a plate, scream­ing, cry­ing — don’t work. Noth­ing works. It just sits there, the anger-hate-rage-hate-fury-hate, and so, in turn, I just sit here, wish­ing it and myself dead by the most viol­ent and unpleas­ant means imaginable.

I want to name the names, shout­ing them out loud.
I want to scream and shout and hurt.
I want to spit in faces.
I want revenge.

I want, most of all, to meet the loath­some, despic­able cunt I clearly was in a past life (that can be the only explan­a­tion, as far as I’m con­cerned) and bring him back here to the present. So I can spend each day psy­cho­lo­gic­ally tor­tur­ing him.

I will, of course, do none of these things. I never do. And the last is obvi­ously impossible and I never even ima­gine it bey­ond a moment. Does all that make me a fun­da­ment­ally decent human being? And if so, why don’t I feel as if I am such a person?

22:56 and unlocked, unlocked, unlocked

I let them in. I shouldn’t have done. But I did. I don’t know why. Maybe. I don’t know. Because I stopped work­ing? Because I paused? Because I took a breath. But yes, I let them in. I grabbed them from thirty years in the past and pulled them into my mind. Delib­er­ately. Meth­od­ic­ally. With intent. Why? Because I had to remind myself I’m human. Sick-minded, I turn to events from thirty or thirty-five years ago to remind myself I’m human, that I could feel, that some­where deep inside I still can. Feel. Exper­i­ence. Whatever it was. Whatever it is. I don’t know. Sick of mind and heart and deed and skin, sick, sick, sick, I let them in. Come in. Over my threshold. I don’t know why. I do know why. I don’t know why. I do. Cleanse me, please. I’m sick. Cleanse me. Sick­ness. Cleanse. Sick. Cleanse. I need to know I’m human. I need to know. I need.

09:46 and the same old new day

i real­ise that I’ve given up on the concept of ‘the future’ as some­thing that offers poten­tial, unex­plored aven­ues, the pos­sib­il­ity of some­thing new round every corner. When I think about ‘the future’ I just see more of the present. Stasis. Iner­tia. This. 

This. This. And more this. 

And don’t give me some hippy-dippy bull­shit about change com­ing from within. Believe me, I’ve tried change from within until I’m vomit­ing up chunks of internal change, but each time the Wit­bout turns up to give the Within a viol­ent kick­ing and then, as he’s lying on the ground, pulling his head up by the hair and smash­ing his face into the con­crete. All to remind him of his worth­less status in the world. 

I’m tired. Very tired. And why would I want more of the above? Answer me that. (Or don’t, just look help­lessly embar­rassed. It’s okay, I now look con­stantly help­lessly embar­rassed about myself, if I’m honest.)

22:48 and jabbering at the vicious circle

What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? No, not that. What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? I agree, it is. It def­in­itely is. What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? Let’s fuck off and jump. What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? But not yet, sadly. What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? WHAT? WHAT? WHAT? NO, I CAN’T HEAR ANYTHING. NOT A FUCKING THING. NOT A SOUND. IT’S ALL QUIET ON THE SOUTH-WESTERN FRONT. WERE STAYING SILENT FOR THE ENTIRE SODDING DURATION.

12:54 and the choke of tumbleweed

I think the fond, warm­ing memor­ies I keep locked away for use in fal­low peri­ods are get­ting tired of being exploited, explored, over-analysed, examined almost forensic­ally. They’re look­ing dog-eared and thread­bare. Worn out and eroding. 

I can’t really blame them. I do rather cling to them.