Remembering to forget

Inversions have become a rule of thumb. I adore the toxic and reject joy, the straight path no longer concerns me. For me, the murk has lost its dread, and much worse, its pleasure. Step into my office, not much of an office I know, pick a chair hanging from the ceiling and hang out. I clean cutlery for a living. As the human race hurtles towards utter calamity, I can calmly state that my main societal output has been the polishing of eating utensils. And not once did I think about sticking a fork into the nearby power outlet. Not once, not even one time did I imagine stabbing the steel prongs into that fertile socket, the paralysing force shooting up my arm into my heart, achieving astral freedom bought from a painful catharsis, death. It’s a downside up life – life resembling death, as death is to life.
“But what of love!?” a romantic cries. He is far off in the distance.

“Closer boy, closer!” I shout back. But he doesn’t come any closer, instead, he lingers on the horizon with his mistress, enjoying how the sunset paints the freshly wounded sky a mottled crimson. And all the better for him, because I would flatten his nose if he had the courage to tell that to my face. Lovers do not love bravery. And what of love…

Lovers die or love dies. Perhaps that couple on the horizon will fall out or perhaps their love will last their lifetime. Best case, he watches his other half die before him. “Best case for you, boy, you’re happiness is as temporary as mine is absent!”
They have walked down the steep path to the beach.

Enough of lover’s dying – the Bard wrote on it and so it is done. The lesser and pathetic tragedy lies before us to discuss. Love died.

She stood in the way of my self-destruction. And showed me a kindness that I had never felt before. And for that I hated her – I thought it was another trick, another deception. I didn’t recognise your purity, I had never seen or felt anything like it before. It’s no excuse, I didn’t even try to understand. All I had my sight on was a comfortable hole; self-hatred, that which I know well – rather than love, that which I do not.

And I can hide these feelings under obtuse literary references or backwards prose, I still find myself looking up from the keys surprised to see my pain sitting so plainly on a page. No matter how tightly I stitch words together, the blood seeps through, I am a writer who is more butcher than surgeon. Let it bleed, for the blank page may be intimidating, but you can rest assured that it can take the beating. Let it be your punching bag and not the ones you love. I am sorry and sorry that I am little else.

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