Author S. K. Nicholas

The last time I wrote anything was over fifteen months ago. Since then, I became obsessed with the ghost of my ex-girlfriend, got engaged to another, lost our baby, and left my place of residence for the last eight years. There are too many lonely roads and too much death. My next door neighbour died the other day. Died while talking on the phone. One minute she was alive, then the next just a corpse, all bloated and rigid, tongue swollen with no more goodbyes left to be said. Every time I close my eyes, I think of what shouldn’t be there, landscapes that drift around, old embraces tighter than infinity. I’ve given up smoking of sorts, down to just a few a week. Given up drinking wine as well. The time when I drank a bottle a day for months on end a thing of the past. Energy drinks too. There’s nothing left; I’ve given up everything I like. Even masturbation isn’t as good as it used to be. Too forced, too flimsy. Porno too cheap, with women who don’t do what they used to. I’m not really here. Yesterday holds too much for me. If I got myself back to a time from before, to a time when she waited for me on eager hips, everything would be okay. I buried my child on a cold and windswept day, buried her until she wasn’t there, and now she’s haunting me, just like the rest. Memories of lost summers; lost journeys of days when tomorrow never came. I’m on fire. I’ve stopped watching those videos too, the ones where people meet their makers. Beheadings, sliced and diced and disappeared out of existence. There’s nothing left of me anymore except for words and memories. Sickly words, stories, James and his portal, the girl that would be my own, but now she’s his instead. He’s on fire too, because everything I don’t feel, he has to instead. Might go down to the shop, buy some beer. Said I wouldn’t, said it would be a weekly treat, but I think it needs to be done. No cigarettes, and no battery acid. Watched some porno, was awful, too many dead children swimming in the oblivion of a waste paper bin. I’ll try and write when I get back, that’s if my brain functions, and I don’t get too restless. Midgets dancing, girls, dreams of old houses. Where did all the love go? Drinking water to stop myself from growing tired, I’ve got this burn, and it keeps me up all night, it’s a demon in my chest. Blood flowing down the pavement, worms and kids. No more snow left to make interesting days, and not enough rain. Only masks and century-old trees to keep me company.