Author S. K. Nicholas

Are we just animals raging on a rock that orbits a star shooting through space, or are we lovers wasting our lives on stuff that doesn’t even matter? Either way, I’d say we’re fucked. Smoking a cigarette watching others doing their best to fit in, a fight breaks out at the bar involving two guys dressed in their worst. Quarrelling over some dumb blonde with panda eyes, they rush outside and begin their dance. One of them even removes his top in some bizarre show of brute aggression. Mockingly applauding his efforts, I retreat to a safe distance as the two boneheads fall to the floor and writhe around. They’re supposed to be tough; supposed to be putting on a show, but the only one who’s impressed is some guy with one hand on his pint and the other sliding down his trousers. I want them to gauge each other’s eyes out, but before any serious harm occurs, their girlfriend’s interupt and put a stop to things. Such a dismal performance and one I’m sure is happening up and down the country in cities, towns, and everywhere in between. As I’m sipping my beer, I imagine how many women are on their backs thinking of someone other than the one attempting to fuck their brains out. So much lust and boredom being exhaled in the same breath. So many lives that pass out of existence as if they never even mattered. And perhaps they don’t. Perhaps the games we play have no meaning at all, and despite our best attempts, we’ll just fade out of view as if we weren’t even here to begin with. Estelle isn’t working tonight, so I don’t get the chance to ask her if she’s checked out Bukowski. She’s probably doing Ketamine somewhere while some guy spends the best part of the night trying to find her clit before passing out. The thought of it makes me shudder. Not her clit, but the same cheapened acts performed over and over again with no end in sight. Maybe that’s why I’m doing my best to avoid all contact with women, but at the same time I know I’m drifting further away, and isolation isn’t healthy at the best of times, specially not when you’re a writer. Ha! What a thought! No wonder all those ex-lovers tired of me. So delusional. So lost. But hey, it is what it is. I’m writing, and despite every fuck up, the words continue when so much else has come to a grinding halt.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk 

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com