Gates of Janus

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All around me are rocks and winding fields, and as mud creeps from my shoes up to my trousers, the wind pushes me this way and that. With no one else about, I’m at one with nature, and although it annoys me knowing I’m so small, to be natural in a world of machines gives me the will to carry on. My hair, the wind has messed it up completely, and I’m not impressed, but there’s not much I can do but pull up behind a tree and piss out the three or four pints consumed in the pub a few hours before. Lighting a cigarette, I contemplate the meaning of my absence for those several years and am unsure what to think. Why did I lose all feeling for creation? Pondering the answerless question, I recall the time I went into the woods and masturbated while fantasying about Kirstin Dunst. As my seed dripped to the earth at my teenage knees, it felt as if there had been a transformation. An awakening. Some kind of changing within my bones. Such perversity, but I was morphing from a boy to a man, and as such there can be no boundaries. And to think back again to those forgotten years- those years after I had made the transition from painting to words. At first, there had been a flurry of them, an explosion of thoughts and ideas that occupied each and every moment of my life, and then they came to an abrupt end, and nothing I did could make them come back. I existed, I loved, and yet there was a deep sense of disconnection within me that couldn’t be overcome. The lights were on, but there was nobody home, if you will. Zipping myself up and continuing, the wind eases and the sun begins to shine instantly lifting my mood. The words are with me now, and that’s what matters most. My mistakes and failures will follow me no matter what, but it doesn’t matter. Let them. With each day comes creation and expression and the glory of being in tune with my heart’s desires. Every piece of prose is a fuck- it’s a cosmic lay beneath the stars, a divine sensation and a middle finger to apathy. Not many I know tend to believe what I’m saying, but those that do are the ones I would like to fuck most.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com

13 replies »

  1. “Every piece of prose is a fuck- it’s a cosmic lay beneath the stars, a divine sensation and a middle finger to apathy.” I am going to lie awake at 3 am and contemplate this truth. Feel this deep in my bones. Thank you.

  2. ‘The words are with me now, and that’s what matters most. My mistakes and failures will follow me no matter what, but it doesn’t matter.’
    Life … your story, your life, all that makes you you, such a gift. I love this 🙂

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