Author S. K. Nicholas

Some people know nothing. In fact, make that most of them. They know little of love that’s for sure. As for pain, they think they know it, yet what they feel is only the tip of the iceberg. They’ve only scratched the surface, and it’s a long way down to the bottom. It’s at the bottom where I prefer it, though. On the depths of the ocean floor, solitude makes me whole. Wandering the wrecks of long forgotten ships, the ghosts tell me their secrets, and in the darkness, the light is much easier to see, so I do my best to keep well hidden. Avoiding others is my pastime. I’ll go out of my way to keep my own company, for it’s the only company I can trust. No ulterior motives. No melodrama waiting to jump up and bite me on the balls. Others have their charms, yet they always insist on making you just like them. They’ll shape you as they see fit, and anything they don’t understand, they’ll erase good and proper. Whatever they fear, will be crushed and kicked to the gutter. They’re a virus, and it’s their job to consume and multiply. The individual is not allowed, for all must follow the repellent crowd. Everyone is no one, and all must worship banality, for banality breeds confidence. Dumb and self-assured, and more than likely successful in a pointless field. This is not my idea of a good time. No, it is not.

Dead celebrities. Chinese bus drivers vomiting blood at an alarming rate. Some fall down escalators. Others butcher girls and leave them in baths of sand. Such strange eyes, now immortalized in poisoned minds. I sit upright in bed being bombarded by images of cheapened flesh as if it were supposed to excite me. Fake tits. Fake lips. Fake everything. A culture dedicated to pussy and cock. It’s not that I think it’s immoral, it’s just that it has no meaning. It elicits only the sensation of cheapness. Ain’t no mystery in Botox blowjobs, and there ain’t no mystery in hollow bodies being passed around like dog-eared porno’s. This culture of debasers. This generation of putrid thrills. Sleazy souls on sale for whatever you’re willing to pay. If your soul hasn’t yet been eroded, there’s every opportunity for you to lose it whichever way suits you best. Spouting quotes with designer tattoos. Nice haircuts and whatever. IS beheadings and missing Mexican hands. Stillbirth. Rimjobs. Rembrandt. Collapsing from the heavy air of electricity mixed with atrocity, I swim deeper, as deep as I can go. The symmetry of spineless darlings who’ll do anything for you to take them to bed. Their sweet oblivion is all they care for. It’s all they have.