When the itch gets too much to bear, do you drink yourself away or do you peel back your flesh and let them see what gnaws at your bones? Maybe it’s both? Who gives a fuck. Just say what you’ve got to say before the chopper comes to chop off your head, because when it does, those wasted days won’t magically begin to speak. So make them speak while you still can. Make them howl. My twenties. They kinda came and went. Relationships. Video games. Books. Boredom. Drinking. Boredom. Quarry. Detachment. People dying. Illness. Shit jobs. Mortality. Love. No love. Heartbreak. More boredom. Poor diet. Poor. And then I turned thirty and discovered I was leaving no document of this shit. So now I document and reminisce and yeah it makes me feel sad to think of those lovers that slipped through my fingers and yeah it makes me feel bad to think of the sense of apathy that had me in its grasp but this is what happens. Do I wish for a bullet to blow my brains to kingdom come? Of course. Do I wish to become just another face enjoying a blameless life of mediocrity and weekend sex? You fucking bet. I should be looking forward to Christmas and spending time with a wife and children. Should be planning the next holiday. Making arrangements to play golf with the guys I work with at the bank. But no. No wife nor kids nor holidays nor golf and no bank. Instead it’s writing this and writing that and beer and drawings and books and the novel and the journal and then the next journal and this memory that hurts and that memory that hurts and my ageing reflection and masturbation when there should be birth. Maybe I’ll take a week off? Not write a single word? I keep saying this but never go through with it. The last time I went a week without writing was when Benisha and I went on holiday 18 months ago just before we broke up. That was the last time things felt easy. And then we split and then my dad got cancer and then my obsession grew and grew and grew until it took over completely. But I have no regrets. We only have this day- this one moment where we speak the truth or get flushed away with the turds. So here I am speaking my truth and sometimes it makes sense and sometimes it doesn’t, but here it is. Am I running? Am I chasing? Am I a lover or nothing more than a quitter? Can I make this thing work or is it just an excuse to not be like everyone else? I’ve a feeling it’s all of them, and that’s what makes it so beautiful.
Author S. K. Nicholas 
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