Writing on my bed after work, I fall asleep listening to Fripp and Eno. It wasn’t proper sleep, but the kind that sees you walking the thin line between reality and dream. Strange visions flashing behind my eyes as I curled into a ball midway through a blog piece, existential questions kept tapping on my shoulder. Tap-tap-tapping as I begun to slip away, the image of my cock being cut off snapped me back into the land of the (almost) living. Wincing at the thought of the knife slicing just beneath my crown, there was a second or two when fear had a hold of me completely, but it soon faded like everything else that comes and goes into my life. And such a mundane and safe life I lead, yet the threat of the end is never far from pulling me under. Self-abuse soon follows, but not with any real intent. It serves a purpose, but that’s about it. I need to go on a detox. Cut the crap right out of my life and feel like a teenager again. Oh, to go back to those long summer months in my years at university. With no job to worry about and no alarm clock to haunt my mornings, I would wake in the afternoon and spend the days going for walks in the countryside listening to music and then drawing long into the night. These were the best days of my life. No pressure to achieve, and no reason to chase success. I was happy just to drift and drift I did from day to day in a state of casual creation no one has ever seemed to appreciate. This is my goal; to be far away from others while writing, drawing, and painting, with no need for social bullshit. With no one to impress, my life will be dedicated to art, and maybe to one who feels the same way, too. But things will never be so simple, and life will never be so kind. Writing goes some way to ease the pain, but it never seems enough, somehow. Too much morbid self-attention was never good for anyone, yet it seems to be part of the gig nowadays. There’s no escaping it.