I mean, You add the act to the a masterclass of dramatic music and a morose backstory et Voila: another Shakespearean tragedy collecting dust in the dungeons of many a memory castle until its biblical ashen oblivion. Pathetic.
On the other side of the faceless coin, I stripped suicide from its fineries, its theatrics and its orchestra and accepted its nakedness for what it’s not; it is not my cowardice nor my bravery, it is not my well deserved catharsis and it most definitely is not my long awaited salvation.
Why then?
The meds? The Colours? The depression and attention deficit? The 9 to 5. The highway drive. The bus. The rent. You, him, they, us. I could tell you that it is any or all of the above but it’d be a lie.
It is just me. Aye.
I.
I, I, I adore and condemn I, insecure and lost I, Grey I.
I am just bored, you see.
Deadeyed and hardened by the consequences of conscious colourlessness, I survive.
Yet I am not chewing at my broken nails nor laying on the cold floor in a puddle of my own making.
I am just done, you see. The self conscious, self righteous and self obsessed I has reached the final destination of the fear and loathing train going: Choo fucking Choo.
I’d always thought I’d be around to witness the death of everything and everyone, mine with intrigue, but I hardly ever imagined that my demise would be a woman. A beautifully designed one at that.
I’ve known the foreign beauty for quite some years now, yet I was never keen on identifying with her nor had any intent on showing her my true colours, not because of my lack of eloquence nor because I secretly coveted her with inexplicable zeal but rather because she was a ‘Grey’. Greys are true to their colourlessness; Nothing and everything, all in a carefully orchestrated chaos that they’ve created alongside a legion of masks and facades to hide whatever darkness lies within. On most occasions she would wear this pink array of carelessness and false wisdom, admittedly it worked for her but I am in a very pretentious and destructive phase of my life.
But..
And I love the word ‘But’… it stops, it interrupts…
But…
I was high. A funny fact about drugs/alcohol and I is that they allow moi, yours true, to be who I carefully hide as well as think aloud like a twat; They reveal me to ‘Them’.
Unmasked, I asked her in whispers:
Who are you?
If someone asks, rather, if I asked, what would be your answer?
And before I could retract the question that sounded rather pointless, she swiftly pierced me with a calm, collected and genuine answer:
I am death.
I leave and all ends.
It is what it is.
I was lying in bed yet my knees gave out, my heart excitedly skipped around my chest and I kissed her. The last part did not actually happen but in my world I was salvaged by the image.
Most men long to meet their maker and ultimately give up their demons, I offered mine in submission in return for some of hers. Fair Trade. The girl who was death had finally come for me and I’d always imagined the death of everything and everyone. She is Red.
“Hey There, pretty little girl”, take my hand when you descend and watch me unfurl, for I had no right to adore you yet I foolishly twist and twirl.
See, I do not belong here, not on this land, nor among the living but for a moment in time, I slipped from the clutches of my demons, fell into your eyes, found religion on the arching of your lips and by the Godless skies I prayed and with your waist line I swayed to be ultimately born again, anew.
Alas, it was what it was, a mere moment in time. I rose midway through my unrealistic waking dream, only to realize you’re not there, that you were never there and that all there was left was my naked reflection in the bathroom mirror and I. So I wrote this abomination in your honour as both an apology and a vow.
I am sorry I burdened you with my fiends when you had flown yours alongside you across the narrow sea. I am sorry I am who I am, a facade of a man encircling a lifelong death wish and I am supremely apologetic for what you’re probably not going to read.
Yet I still write, pathetically at that, but I do. It is what keeps me insane enough to feel while delaying my long awaited end. I will always try to find you, not to bind you but to silently bury my face in your arms, within you.
-“Hello,I am ‘I’, headmaster of history of the 2nd degree in the name of “Him, the third” “
I’d rather present myself in a less politically correct way
-“Hello, I am the void. I am rich and of recognizable physical prowess and everything bores me, even your surprised facial expression. I want to massacre you just to feel a momentary thrill or just to study your remains hoping your demise will result in something new, anything new…Don’t run…running is boring.”
I often, well, I always opt to keep such expressions to the privacy on my thoughts, after all, I am ‘respected’ member of the High Council.
The Third One? No one knew who pulled the trigger, be it a nation or a man, all I know is it just made perfect sense that it would start.
It was a blast, literally. The most beautiful mushroom clouds reigned supreme over what once were the most beautiful, powerful, consumer-based cities of the new then, presently old world. Most of it was consumed in the flames that kept raining through the blackened skies for seven long days and seven longer nights, that were later named in our current history files “The last 7”
350 years ago, I wasn’t even the thought of a sperm cell yet I’ve always wanted to witness Armageddon, to see through mortal eyes and body the magnificent event that is still vastly intriguing to the partially immortal, I.
I must re-assure you that according to recorded history and the remnants of whatever they claimed to be civilization, they had it coming, not necessarily “The last 7”, but an end of some sort; Volcanoes erupting to bring humanity to cinder and ash, beasts and plants evolving to massacre those who enslaved, dominated and consciously murdered them for the sake of the misguided greater technological progress or ‘Just’ a facade of nuclear explosions to rid the pretentious and self-righteous species of the burden they carry; Humanity.
Theoretically speaking, the latter of these “D-Day” scenarios seems the most boring but factually, it was very entertaining. Men, large and small, running and screaming and burning and praying, women wailing, momentarily mourning, children slain, geezers in pain, all occurring with my great grandfather’s favourite music playing in the background, singing that when the music’s over, it will be the end. Or at least that’s how imagined it; A thing of beauty.
I originally thought that learning about ancient history would give me what I need, would fill the bored vessel I, with something new, anything new. All I could ever find exciting was the ability of man throughout the different timelines to find enough reasons to be apart, to wage war, to end. Things have drastically changed since The Third One, since The Last 7. Don’t misunderstand, the split is still alive, well and standing physically erect, a wall to separate two ideologies that erupted post the mushroom display; The Yians called for unity among those who spiritually transcended after witnessing “The Wrath of God” to worship their different deities, to embrace nature under the one banner of ‘Yves’ The holy nation. Laughable.
The Xians suggested that what happened was merely a flaw, a gap in the sought after evolution of the human race, not remotely close to spiritual damnation or angelic retribution from the so-called God, Gods or what not. What they failed to realize is that they made the choice to be earthly bound to just a different form of deity; Physics, and they, well, we seem to be well on our way to more flaws in the humanly imperfect system. We are the Xians of ‘Xera’.
I scratch the markings on the back of my head as I ponder the uselessness of such recollections or rather, wanderings every single inane morning. The markings do not itch, I just always deducted that a physical manifestation of one’s thinking process is needed, whether to indicate to social acquaintances that one is thinking or just to imitate every and each cinematic character; the director is always in control, sometimes a simple scratch on the forehead does the trick and other times, nervously rubbing the back of the head is needed to depict a troublesome mental activity. I am the ‘Current Director’ of my dimension. I choose to scratch my marks.
I get up hastily on my feel, feel the currency spent on my illegally imported Kashmir Rug, look in the mirror to be reminded of how young I look and how old and bored I am then I order one of the iron servants to wake up mother for her daily dose of ramblings on the porch.
-“Give me excitement
Give me joy
Give me life”
For a split second I wished I’d detect confusion on its expressionless face, but to my lack of surprise, nothing happened. Damn you Palanhiuk. I then mutate my order into plain eggs. Something new, Anything new.
Time is smirking at me. Why do we still have time? I do not know.
Routine Begins in 3
2
1
– Index signaling the forbidden music to play and ironically, music starts with a great gig in the sky.
– Hand sways to shuffle through old notes, boring schedules and the news with childish hope of finally finding something intriguing. Nothing is, everything isn’t.
– Neatly fitted expressive suit, expensive analogue watch, shiny expensive black shoes that match brilliantly with my expensive black belt, All yelling: “Fuck you equality”
I have not written in quite a whole, which is both worrying and intriguing. I tend to get concerned by these periods of ink drought for writing has been my saviour when I wasn’t saving myself and my ability with the pencils has always been a doubt.
I fear that my personal development – however minute – and my self reflection are making me more human.
I do not write because I’ve found the soul-well where I can allow myself to confess my sins and be blessed. I do not write because I’m afraid of the re-emergence of my demons – aptly named ‘Lord Ass’ and ‘Princess misjudgment’. My creations long for annihilation. I do not write when I’m not morose and by the heavens, I appreciate the emotional break.
Unfortunately, the break is nearing its abrupt ending. The well is regrettably tainted by past sinners and demons and she years to rid herself from mine.
So I write, completely oblivious of what will follow next or rather, of what will come sooner; The wrath of the maiden or the triumph of fiends or even my long awaited rise post the chosen free-fall.
Suicide.
The Flaky Derelict 