Tuesday, May 22, 2007

Hell is for the lonely.

Callous winds fly words meant for others - send dull chills through me - so I bury my hands deep and James Dean the street up toward Fitzroy. It's been a while since I sat on my own in the window, filling myself with words and food and wine. It feels good. Am I alone or lonely? I don't feel lonely. Sometimes lonely isn't what you think, sometimes it's a quiet reward. Sometimes it's the peace you think you're searching for. Sometimes you got to swallow it and let the aftertaste warm you when no one else will. I like that. It's whiskey living, clean and sober, as you tell yourself a story that only you can understand. A love affair in a book. A cerebral information, a dark and dirty paperback in the mail, or a blissful joy - a happy ending. Maybe. Makes sense to a brain like mine, too complicated and humourless to anyone else. So freedom - as in the teenage break up - means you've got time to kill, time to live maybe. You just have to work out what is worth what. For you. For me - The only thing that matters is looking inside. I make my money now, I am a citizen, I just don't care for the hunger all that much. It's another step on the road to transparency, like having a conversation with someone and telling them, not much, just been staying home, and watching their eyes glaze as they realise you don't have an invite for them, or don't care to drop names, or appear anything other than that which you are, quietly moving along in your life, hoping for the moment or the person or the words, the gentle erosion or violent explosion that will signal the next phase in you. That's a lot of commas. I figure there's something in that. There's been commas and full stops and abbreviations and indents and question marks and exclamation marks, but it still feels like the same chapter, the same Part. Soon I'll turn a page and I'll be greeted by a white page, by a title case sign post that holds the promise of a new thread, either climax or resolution I'm unsure of which, which is next, to be honest it could be either. But it feels like this Part is closing, threads wound up, some left tangled, some frayed, some set alight, the whole thing a distraction for a pent up pussy. Fuck it. I'm a dog person. I play rough and occasionally get bit and throw my balls around until they come back covered in slobber and slime and with a more, more, more until everyone's had enough damn it and all you want to do is take a break. On your mat. Sit the fuck down, or even better, go outside and stay because I'm going out and I won't be back. Hell is for the lonely. One scorched and scarlet earth burning eternal flame and passion which never quits only consumes always tempts never satisfies and is populated by billions of shadows, dark corners of the soul connected to us the hermits and shells which populate the living land above, forever distracting, reacting, creating, copulating, killing, annihilating, anything, anything, anything that denies the existence of the fear that breathes terror into you as a child and which you slowly learn to live with. Hell is for the whores, the unloved, the frightened, the promiscuous, the liars, the cheats, the writers, the kings, the shallow, the weak, the gluttonous and the perverted. Hell is justice for all. Hell is the threat thrown at us by a vengeful God when it was the same god who put us fair and square in the middle of it to begin with. Hell is my Fuck You. For what is this world but my perception of it, or yours or theirs. Hell is my dream. And you're all in it.

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