Souls of the Goldhawk Road
Πριν από 7 χρόνια
Πέμπτη 7 Ιανουαρίου 2010
Τρίτη 5 Ιανουαρίου 2010
This is his very super uber secret blog.
This is his superhero underground HQ.
He's so damned afraid people will think he feels sorry for himself, which he does.
The real question is, will he be alone. Like abandoned. In the end. The spotlight blinds him, he can't see the world around him, he only sees his hands and they're so blown up and big and bright, and it's weird that these hands belong to him. And he can only see these hands and feel the spotlight burning against his face, and this light could be his rage, his hate, and he can only hear the people whisper around him in the darkness.
The thing is, he ain't going to beg. The thing is, he doesn't even care what the voices are saying.
This is what's called "blinded by rage".
What's the next step?
Self-destruction? Any good ideas?
This is his superhero underground HQ.
He's so damned afraid people will think he feels sorry for himself, which he does.
The real question is, will he be alone. Like abandoned. In the end. The spotlight blinds him, he can't see the world around him, he only sees his hands and they're so blown up and big and bright, and it's weird that these hands belong to him. And he can only see these hands and feel the spotlight burning against his face, and this light could be his rage, his hate, and he can only hear the people whisper around him in the darkness.
The thing is, he ain't going to beg. The thing is, he doesn't even care what the voices are saying.
This is what's called "blinded by rage".
What's the next step?
Self-destruction? Any good ideas?
Last night he was convinced he was going to die if he closed his eyes.
So, instead he wrote this.
He gave it an absurd name. He called it: THE LUDICROUS THEATER OF VENGEANCE AND VINDICATION, which was quite ludicrous on its own.
It was one of those terribly bad ideas. Or one of those ideas that go terribly bad.
But he wrote on.
Because he wanted revenge. Because he wanted to scream at people who weren't there at the time to scream at.
Show, don't tell. It was getting tiresome.
His head was buzzing.
Sweat left his pores like little drops of poison.
He swore he'd never drink again. Is that telling, and not showing?
They hooked him up with a therapist for Thursday afternoon. How exciting.
He had to make a list of all the things that made him sick. Or crazy.
There were many things on the list. And the list was ridiculous.
He just wanted to get drunk and not think about the things on the list.
He thought, what's wrong with me?
The sad thing was that there might not be something wrong with him. Goodbye treatment with haze-inducing pharmaceuticals. Goodbye numbness.
He didn't want to become better. He just wanted the others to become worse.
Fuck it. The list drew on and on and on, and it could all be fake.
A fake itch. A manufactured ecstacy.
Insecurity was one of his weakest elements.
He thought of the piece he was writing, and the list, and his manic yet unsupported enthusiasm, and he wanted to smash his head against the wall.
But there was snoring coming from the next room, and it sounded like it was being roared into his ears.
And then another snoring sound replied.
The ebb and flow of snoring, the amazing, complex orchestration of sleep, fucking hysteric.
It made him uneasy.
So, instead he wrote this.
He gave it an absurd name. He called it: THE LUDICROUS THEATER OF VENGEANCE AND VINDICATION, which was quite ludicrous on its own.
It was one of those terribly bad ideas. Or one of those ideas that go terribly bad.
But he wrote on.
Because he wanted revenge. Because he wanted to scream at people who weren't there at the time to scream at.
Show, don't tell. It was getting tiresome.
His head was buzzing.
Sweat left his pores like little drops of poison.
He swore he'd never drink again. Is that telling, and not showing?
They hooked him up with a therapist for Thursday afternoon. How exciting.
He had to make a list of all the things that made him sick. Or crazy.
There were many things on the list. And the list was ridiculous.
He just wanted to get drunk and not think about the things on the list.
He thought, what's wrong with me?
The sad thing was that there might not be something wrong with him. Goodbye treatment with haze-inducing pharmaceuticals. Goodbye numbness.
He didn't want to become better. He just wanted the others to become worse.
Fuck it. The list drew on and on and on, and it could all be fake.
A fake itch. A manufactured ecstacy.
Insecurity was one of his weakest elements.
He thought of the piece he was writing, and the list, and his manic yet unsupported enthusiasm, and he wanted to smash his head against the wall.
But there was snoring coming from the next room, and it sounded like it was being roared into his ears.
And then another snoring sound replied.
The ebb and flow of snoring, the amazing, complex orchestration of sleep, fucking hysteric.
It made him uneasy.
Τρίτη 28 Ιουλίου 2009
untitled
I got about half an hour of sleep. If i slept at all. Maybe I was just daydreaming, closed my eyes and imagined a way outof here, a happy ending, so hard, it felt like peace in my head. It felt like sleep.
And then I wake up and it's the same small room, the shadows on the wall are azure because of the night light, I know it's silly and it's childish but I can't sleep when it's absolute dark, so I have this depressing little light on and I can see the same depressing few furniture, and I can see the stains on the wall and everything is painted like the clear October sky.
The same tick-tock of the old clock in one of my ears and the rats scratching against walls and inside walls+listen hardenough, you'll even hear the roaches party all night long +there's my breath +the electric hum of the small freezer +outside there isdarkness +stillness +inside I miss him.
It's like his absence was what jolted me back to the world of the living in the first place. I touch a pillow, I think it's him, thenI realize it's not him, +I'm alone, +it's dark, cold, lonely etc. etc. +I just jump, or my eyes jump open. Now staring at theceiling, pretending it's the sky. Oh, i don't care. The ceiling is a fucking ceiling anyway you look at it. I'm a fuckingconnoisseur of ceilings, or should be, with the amount of ceilings i've stared at while i'm on my back. But everywhere theceilings are just the same, but you can pretend they're not, yeah? Yes.
Imagine he knocks on my door. He's never knocked on my door at...what time is it? At twenty minutes to two in the morning. Well, I hope,I wish, I pray he does it now. I need him. To fall asleep. Or now, that I don't know where he is and if he's okay, I need*something* to sleep. There's only vodka. I figure if I drink it straight up, it'll get me to sleep. Like a good-night punch.
WHAM, MOTHAHFUCKAH
Behind the walls somebody's fucking. They're doing it pretty hard I guess because I can hear them shout +I can hear their bed,man, I think I know who they are +ewww, that's an ugly mental image, I'll never be able to sleep now, I need pretty pictures inmy head, shut up shut up shut up, and there's screaming like it's fucking murder, man, what if it is, I wouldn't be surprised. The guy in particular is very loud, I wonder if it's revenge or overcmpensating for something, cause I've seen the way he looks atme +Romain when he sees us together outside. His lips say "fucking faggots" but guess what his eyes say: "hey, can I watchhim fuck you and then can I fuck you and maybe we can all fuck?" I know these decent little fucks, I know the greed or that twinklein their otherwise dead fish-eyes, like it's Christams, like my ass is Christmas, wow, they can't believe what Santa brought them.
Anyway. Obviously Romain isn't here now, or else I'd make them pay. Somehow. Or, I'd just stick my good ear to his heart and letits beat overpower any other sound. His heart would be my entire world, my universe, my black hole into nothingness. Sleep islike death is like peace. I freak out again. I can't see him sleep. Cause I don't want him to die. And he's so goddamn beautifulwhen he sleeps, right, it's almost like death. He said so too. "It must be like falling asleep," and I just slapped across theface. "Then I guess I'm gonna have to keep you awake forever, whatever it takes. I'll tape your eyelids open." He laughed. But my mind has already gone places. Better me than him. I can't outlive him. It would fucking kill me, anyway, and it would be toolate by then. Fuck.
I bolt right up, roll on my knees, I pound at the wall with my fists, the bottle barrels down on the floor.
SHUTUP SHUTUP I'm yelling
SHUTTHEFUCKUP
but they won't. The vodka was no good.
And then I wake up and it's the same small room, the shadows on the wall are azure because of the night light, I know it's silly and it's childish but I can't sleep when it's absolute dark, so I have this depressing little light on and I can see the same depressing few furniture, and I can see the stains on the wall and everything is painted like the clear October sky.
The same tick-tock of the old clock in one of my ears and the rats scratching against walls and inside walls+listen hardenough, you'll even hear the roaches party all night long +there's my breath +the electric hum of the small freezer +outside there isdarkness +stillness +inside I miss him.
It's like his absence was what jolted me back to the world of the living in the first place. I touch a pillow, I think it's him, thenI realize it's not him, +I'm alone, +it's dark, cold, lonely etc. etc. +I just jump, or my eyes jump open. Now staring at theceiling, pretending it's the sky. Oh, i don't care. The ceiling is a fucking ceiling anyway you look at it. I'm a fuckingconnoisseur of ceilings, or should be, with the amount of ceilings i've stared at while i'm on my back. But everywhere theceilings are just the same, but you can pretend they're not, yeah? Yes.
Imagine he knocks on my door. He's never knocked on my door at...what time is it? At twenty minutes to two in the morning. Well, I hope,I wish, I pray he does it now. I need him. To fall asleep. Or now, that I don't know where he is and if he's okay, I need*something* to sleep. There's only vodka. I figure if I drink it straight up, it'll get me to sleep. Like a good-night punch.
WHAM, MOTHAHFUCKAH
Behind the walls somebody's fucking. They're doing it pretty hard I guess because I can hear them shout +I can hear their bed,man, I think I know who they are +ewww, that's an ugly mental image, I'll never be able to sleep now, I need pretty pictures inmy head, shut up shut up shut up, and there's screaming like it's fucking murder, man, what if it is, I wouldn't be surprised. The guy in particular is very loud, I wonder if it's revenge or overcmpensating for something, cause I've seen the way he looks atme +Romain when he sees us together outside. His lips say "fucking faggots" but guess what his eyes say: "hey, can I watchhim fuck you and then can I fuck you and maybe we can all fuck?" I know these decent little fucks, I know the greed or that twinklein their otherwise dead fish-eyes, like it's Christams, like my ass is Christmas, wow, they can't believe what Santa brought them.
Anyway. Obviously Romain isn't here now, or else I'd make them pay. Somehow. Or, I'd just stick my good ear to his heart and letits beat overpower any other sound. His heart would be my entire world, my universe, my black hole into nothingness. Sleep islike death is like peace. I freak out again. I can't see him sleep. Cause I don't want him to die. And he's so goddamn beautifulwhen he sleeps, right, it's almost like death. He said so too. "It must be like falling asleep," and I just slapped across theface. "Then I guess I'm gonna have to keep you awake forever, whatever it takes. I'll tape your eyelids open." He laughed. But my mind has already gone places. Better me than him. I can't outlive him. It would fucking kill me, anyway, and it would be toolate by then. Fuck.
I bolt right up, roll on my knees, I pound at the wall with my fists, the bottle barrels down on the floor.
SHUTUP SHUTUP I'm yelling
SHUTTHEFUCKUP
but they won't. The vodka was no good.
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