That feeling you get when you wake up in the morning with a hangover and a dry mouth. Sucking on an ice-cube can help. Makes the mouth taste less like a cats arsehole.
Stumbling outside into the garden, I sat on the grass and watched a spider scuttle several feet towards me until a bird dropped from the sky, snatching it up in its beak. Smiling, it made me feel good to be alive. The hangover didn’t last long, and as the sun shone above me, my appetite for something tasty reared its head. No spiders though, instead a nice fry-up. Something bad for me, a proper English breakfast. When I was done eating, my bowels begun working and I needed to take a shit. I think Bukowski said that going for a dump after a night of heavy drinking is one of the great things about living. And it’s true. The feeling when it all comes out, and the horrendous stink, is a beautiful thing indeed. When I was finished, all I could do was thank the heavens. Who’d have thought that going for a shit would offer so much pleasure. Others need money and careers, but not I. I’m beyond the dreadful realms of man-made needs, of believing others lies.
All you need is what nature gave you.
When I was going for a walk around the quarry and through the woods a few hours later, it occurred to me that she’s more natural than nature. Nature’s too stuck up, too prim and proper. It gives you nothing but the truth, and it never speaks. It’s a mute, joyless fucker. The trees never say a word, they just sway in the wind. There’s nothing natural about them. They give you nothing to go on, no emotions or passion. The same goes for the fields and the blue sky above. The animals too, and all the rocks and chunks of chalk. So pretty to look at, but lacking in passion. In honesty. Yeah they don’t tell any lies, but only because they have no choice. If they did, I’m sure the lies would be dripping in an instant. She though, she’s as honest as they come. She’s as natural as anything you’ll ever encounter. That’s just how she is. When she’s awake and when she sleeps. All she is, is what she is. She wears it like a perfume. A scent so captivating, it makes me feel giddy like a child.
Sitting beneath a tree and smoking a cigarette, a fox came into view and curled up unaware of my presence.
Eventually it set its beady eyes upon me. But it didn’t move. It just gazed there in silence.
Hours came and went after this, and she clung to me every step of the way. As did the ghosts that haunt. The ghosts that linger on the outside, always waiting for me to drop my guard. They get me when I’m lonely, and when I’m sleeping. Sometimes they dress themselves up offering nothing but love, other times mocking me outright. Teasing all that could’ve been. I don’t hate the ghosts though, for it’s I that made them. That gave them life and death. I offer no apologies, and I seek no sympathy. I’m glad they haunt, and I’m glad I’ve done all the things I’ve done. No regrets, that’s how it is. To revel in my actions, in the pain and pleasure that make me do what I do. It’s the only way.
(And if she’s the door I seek,
Then it goes without saying,
That I am the key.)