Walking through the woods on my birthday, and it’s pissing down with rain. I’m drenched. My cigarette goes out. Stood sheltering beneath a tree, a fox runs out from a bush. It looks at me, stops, then runs back. I’m tired, and there’s nothing to do. I don’t want to do anything though. Except write, that’s what I want to do. Artistic masturbation. And the physical kind as well. It’s always a treat to explore the realms of my mind looking for a little cheap fun. All those women, just begging to be found and made whole by an invisible man. All those empty moments, blowing down the street like empty coke cans. And these streets are littered with them. Emptiness rings out like a death call, or the lonely blast of an air raid siren.
Sometimes I’m a writer, sometimes a lover. I make love to ghosts. My mind dissolves flesh and bone. It travels through time, to lost yesterdays and broken promises. All those false words, scattered across wet pathways where our love once walked hand in hand. The hours hushed along with our hearts. The nights wrapped around us, and kept us warm beneath bedsheets so soft. Two lovers, swimming in the darkness. Clinging, to the belief that things were meant to be like this. In each others arms, the sound of wind and rain battering the window would help us get to sleep. It made us feel like the only two souls alive. The storm raging without end, we drew close until we became one.
People just want to belong. They want to feel needed, to feel loved. Women want to feel pretty, men want to protect. They want to protect, so they can destroy what’s theirs. We all want someone else to make us feel good about ourselves. That other person should bring us the sensation of joy, of happiness. Be comfortable with someone, be safe in the confines of a relationship. Seek protection, starve off doubt with useless clutter. Sex brings release. Oblivion, secretly wished upon the tongues of us all. A partner helps us to fit in, to settle down. To meekly escape suspicion. So many shades of horror. So many god awful levels of boredom. If you truly love someone, sacrifice everything for them. Burn all your worldly possessions, severe all ties and live with them in a shed. If it’s love, then prove it. If they mean that much to you, give all your money to charity, get married with no witnesses, and work in a sewage factory. But you won’t, nobody will. There’s too much comfort, and too much excitement in parading our happiness before all the other replicas. We’re swimming with the turds, day in, day out.
I feel comfortable when curled up into a ball. When the breeze comes through the open window and touches my face whilst the rest of me is wrapped in a blanket. Two pairs of socks on, a jumper and a cardigan. Pajama bottoms, two pairs also. I’m going back to the the womb, an infinite bubble of safety. Nothing can hurt me there. No babble to listen to, no one to let me down. Not enough time is spent doing nothing. We try to fill up our lives with so much, but why? Because we want to live life to the full? Of course not. It’s because we can’t bring ourselves to realise that this is it. We try and pretend that there’s some kind of purpose to it, that somehow the end wont come. We think that if we bury ourselves in routines and actions, then tomorrow will never arrive. But it will, rest assured. No matter how much money you have, or how much you try to hide, you’ll end up like everyone that’s gone before. On the slab, and reduced to nothing more than a mass of organic junk. We are haunted by this, and we do everything to try and get away from it. But it doesn’t bother me, not really. I just want to lay here, warm and content with my lot. No pretences, no lies. Enjoy the silence, that’s where it’s at.
And If you fancy laying down next to me, then that’s fine too. I won’t touch you, much.