Drinking beer in bed. My neck hurts. Could be cancer, but probably not. My balls are empty, wasted on empty lust. The sky grows dark, the moon, nowhere to be seen. My navel visible, my belly thinner than it was before. I’m watching a documentary about the universe. Reminds me that there’s more to life than tedium. Feed me magic. Simple wonder, glowing so beautifully, like the smile of a lover. We’re all machines. We’re all stained photographs, waiting to be discovered a hundred years from now. Lost between the pages of a book, our lives reduced to silent hopes and dreams, never to speak again.
Distorted, the patterns on my bedsheets speak to me of nothing but despair. A cigarette is rolled. Smoke in my lungs, it makes me dizzy. Mixed with alcohol, I’m swimming somewhere out of time. My sock has a hole in it. I have no wish to answer the phone. I have no desire to speak to anyone. Words are glorious things, but sometimes, people just need to give it a rest. Hush your mouth, and get some sleep. Or write a letter. People don’t write enough. They don’t love enough. Or dream, that’s for sure. We need to believe. We need to take the situation in hand. To act like we care about something other than our own dim ways of being.
Give yourself some meaning. That’s my mantra. Grow a beard. Make love. Do something interesting. Something surprising. Speak words that make a change. Stand out, show some heart. I want a lover to play me something on the piano. A melancholic piece. Something with depth. The word ‘Maelstrom’ scares me. Both in its meaning, and its appearance. Yesterday scares me, because of all the things I’ve forgotten. And all the things I’ve lost. I want to go swimming. Haven’t swam in years. It makes my soul ache that I don’t swim anymore. I’m less of a man for it. But one day, I’ll surf that beach. Don’t doubt it. I’ll achieve it, no matter how long it takes.
Another cigarette. Timeless time. I stumbled across a dead mole today. It was up at the quarry. I’d never seen a mole before. It was young from what I could gather. It filled me with sadness. Death conquers all. But we are all born again. Just like we were all born in the hearts of dying stars. Cold universes, littered with nothing but empty paint cans. And an empty paint can, is a terrible thing indeed. All these years, I’ve been searching for meaning. Maybe I’ll never find it. May be, it’ll elude me despite my best efforts. But as long as I keep searching, that’s good enough with me. And that’s it really. Keep searching, for discovery is what makes us unique. It keeps us sane, in an age of junk.