I will now, for the life of me, attempt to speak the truth. The complete truth. To myself. In coherence.
Coherence. According to me at least.
This is my thoughts. My mind, reeled across a page.
I believe in truth. And I wish to succumb to truth. I need to succumb if I wish to continue.
If I wish to feel.
If I wish to breathe.
If I wish to smell.
If I wish to be.
Which I do.
I too believe in thought. Pure thought. A thought so free that it’s untainted by thought. By forcing to think a thought, you merely contaminate the purity and reality of the thought. You need to feel thought without thinking. You need to write. A free hand on a free page. Coherence is a necessity only for your own mind, it is the revealing of truth which is a necessity to all.
And so, what I write and what I say, may make little sense to you. You may become lost. You may never find your way again. Or, I may find you; you may have been lost, but this will help you to become found. I cannot truly say. For I am me and not you.
I will only command one thing of you; you must remember, this is not for you, this is for me. I am merely sharing the horrors of my truth, so you can avoid my path. You can avoid my destiny. You can steer clear of my fate. This writing, these words, are me. They are here so they will not become you. Hopefully.
They are here for a reminder. So I cannot forget. So I will not forget. I just need to write it. To understand it. To pin it down. To arrange it. So I can see it. So I can make this reality seem real. Without the words it is merely a nightmare. A nightmare I cannot escape. A nightmare which envelopes the entirety of my existence.
Once again I shall understand. I need this to begin to believe the truth. I need this to become me. To become the me that never could blossom. To become the me who never was.
On the verge of paradise
It’s a dark morning. Like every morning, a dark one. The clouds are low and grey. Like every morning, low and grey. And bitter. It’s bitterly cold. Cold and rainy. Like every time I wake. Every morning. It is cold, rainy, dark and grey.
It’s 8.16 but still dark. I live in constant twilight. In the time where the body’s weakest. Early morning. When the air is dank and cold. Before the sun has risen. And just as the moon begins to set. This is where I live. In a constant state of limbo. Ridiculed by dreams. Visions. And reality. All entwining and mixing and congealing together. Leaving me unsure of what is and what’s not.
Deep down I know it all is. It all is the truth. But that weakens me even more. Just the thought. Just the recognition. It attacks me. It weakens me. It kills me. So I shun it. Inevitably. As you would. As anyone would. I’m certain.
So I just lay still. Waiting in anticipation. Playing unfamiliar with the, oh so familiar. As they say, ignorance is bliss. But not in this life. Not in this life it isn’t. Nowhere near it in fact. It’s hell. That’s what it is. It’s pain. It’s hurt. But it’s better than the alternatives. It’s the best I have. So I have it. Instinctively.
He always sat there with a glass wine. White. Never red. For red was bitter. And it reminded him of his past. According to him, red was dead. White was his new hope. His tunnel out of obscurity. Literally, it presented the white light. The bright white light. The bright white light of reason.
It bubbled frantically. From the pit of the glass. Little hope. Little chance of anything. Then it broke free. From nowhere. The bubble broke free. It zigzagged upwards. Spiralling. Twisting. Unconventionally. Wriggling and writhing in an unfamiliar way. But nevertheless making progress. Fighting to find its destiny. Its truth. Frantically gasping for freedom. Mounting. Climbing. Up and up. Wildly escaping its past. Forming its present. Writing its future. It reaches the surface.
That’s the trouble with ambition. The risk. The threat it poses.
The red wine just sat still. Dead still. Not moving. Lying heavy. No passion. No ambition. No fight for freedom. No desire. It merely sat and waited. Waited to be consumed. Or poured away. Or dropped. Or thrown against a wall. Or spilled down the back of a chair. Staining.
It had no fight for freedom. As they say, ignorance is bliss. So it chose to stay ignorant. Unsure of what it could become. Unsure of what it is. But it felt safe that way. The bliss of ignorance.
Its fate is never bliss. That’s the irony. It looked for bliss in ignorance. But this can never be found. Never. It is potentially more bliss than what ambition may have brought. But we shall never know. For it refuses to risk. To risk its ignorance. And so it is contented. Sat there. Lifeless. No future. No present. No past. But at least it remains unaware. On the surface at least.
If only he could see. If only he knew. The eventual fates of both red and white. But how could he. How could he. And anyway he probably did. He just chose to stay ignorant, for as they say, ignorance is bliss.
On the verge of paradise
The sun never ascends. Never. The only light is silver. The same silver as always.
The same diffused silver.
Through the window the full moon glows dimly. Trying to descend. But stuck. Transfixed in this world. Stopped in time and motion. It stays. As if glued to the window. Unable to move. Unless she decides to remove it. And replace it. Higher. Or lower. Or even with a cut out sun. But she never does. This would mean change. And change was her biggest fear.
And so it stays. Stuck in the hours of twilight. On the verge of being and not being. Warped by the contrasting time zones. Stuck in a void. A deep black void. Known by me as life.
Just dangling. Suspended. Not living. Not being. Not real.
But the truth.
Today it just hangs, as if from a piece of string. Like it does every day. Just like it does every day. Every day. Just the same. Like this. Every day.
Chapter 2 continued
He is sat again tonight. As always. In the same chair. In the same corner. Inside the same four walls. Moth eaten and stained. It should be gone. The chair, it should be gone. It should be rid of. Out of the house. Burned. Scraped. Ripped. Sold. Anything. Just gone.
The red splashed up it’s ivory back. Staining the intricate emerald embroidery. Running. Flowing red. Like blood flowing down cathedral walls. The rich cotton of flowers. Tainted by the maroon splashes of congealed red.
It haunts him with memories. Everyday he is reminded. Unable to forget. They just sit there. The splashes. Staring at him. Asking him what he’s become. Reminding him of what he was. Making him remember the safety. The security he had.
They just stay there. Red upon white. Intimidating his presence with fears. His deepest fears. Fears of her. Her and her potential return. He fears her so much. So, so much. Simply because he feels he needs her. He was better off with her. With the way she cared for him. Protected him. He regrets his choice. Deep down. On the surface he is happy. But below he is living in constant torment. Without her, he is not he. And this is why he fears her so. Her great power. And how it suddenly vanished.
He has thought, many times, of parting with it. The chair. But he can’t. He simply cannot. Why? You ask. And I can assure, he asks the same each day, each hour, each second. With every breath he asks again. And the answers always the same, never different, never confused. He simply needs a reminder. A memory of what he was. What she was. What they were.
You see, without the reminder he may seep back. Back into obscurity. Into the past. The zone he fought and fought to obliterate. Gone, but only after he realised it’s true potential. What it could do, the damage. What it has done, the pain and anguish. The suffering caused by her. By she. By he.
But then he asks himself. Isn’t this what he truly wants. He has tasted the bitterness of freedom. The harshness of life. Doesn’t he dream to be ignorant once again. For, as we have established. Ignorance can only mean bliss.
On the verge of paradise
To my mind, November the 12th has always been dark. Dark and grey. Dark, grey and miserable. Every day has been. Every day is. It’s the only way I can remember my days. The only way I have seen them. Each moment unfolds with a state of dank drizzle. With low lying clouds. A silvery tint. And yet, it all seems so unfamiliar.
Each day has been this way since the day of my birth. Without fail. Dark and grey. But today! I fear today’s November 12th has been one of the worst, and it’s only just begun.
Then again, it only ever begins. The clock ticks, 8.16.
I would even go so far as to say that today’s November 12th is the worst it has been for the past 12 months. I do concede that in an average world, not a great number of November 12th’s take place. But this isn’t an average world. This really isn’t.
But it is real. That’s the trouble. That’s the danger.
It’s real. Too real.
It’s still 8.16.
8.16 on the 12th November 1986.
That’s where he was. That’s where she was. That’s where they were. He couldn’t fight against. He couldn’t understand. And yet he understood. He couldn’t fight it. H didn’t know how.
That night. Sat alone. In the ivory chair. Stained with red. He sat. Very alone.
He was congealed in a static vibration of her thoughts. They radiated through his limbs. When she was here. When she was there. When she was away. But she was never away. Her feet whisked her body from him, but she remained. She was never away.
Despite now seeing what it did to him; Her constant presence. Her ‘security.’ Her scrutiny of his every thought, his every movement. He realized he needed it. It was his breath. His beat. His life. Essentially it was his entity.
And now, after he took her away, he had nothing. He destroyed all that made him. It was, in effect, suicide.
He has been left with everything. There is no difference. Nothing changed. The stained chair. The memories. The dreams. The realities. The freedom. The constriction. The panic. The pain. These did not subside. They increased. They tortured.
He still has all. Almost. Everything, but she. For she has gone. Much to his regrets, she has gone.
On the verge of paradise
I am sweating. Profusely. Sweating. My sheets surround me. Engulf me. Suffocate. My mind wriggles. But my body grips firmly. I cannot move. I merely vibrate. Invisibly. To the untrained eye I merely lay. As a statue. Not breathing. Not blinking. But to me I contort. In an epileptic frenzy. I try to break free. But, half thankfully, and half despairingly, I simply remain. Motionless.
I am yet to take a breath. The morning air is heavy. Cold, grey and heavy. Heavy as always. Just the way I remember. Just the way I know it. They way it always is. The way it always has been. Heavy. Lying low.
My heart is palpitating. Beating viciously in the back of my throat. Throbbing. Swelling. I am yet to take a breath.
My mind hears a ticking clock. Turning so slowly. Ticking. Slowly. In a backward motion, it remains.
In my mind. Inside my head. I hear it. Ticking.
8.16 still. Still 8.16. But not for long. Not now. Not long.
Sometimes it kills him to remember how it was. How she was. How he was. But essentially, how they were.
He almost lost. He would have lost. And yet he would have won. For she would have accomplished. Meaning victory. And he. He would have perished. Meaning victory. In a sense. But it could easily be written visa versa. Which, in fact, is how destiny did write it. How it was made to unfold. To unravel. To unwind.
It was essentially his destiny. But this changed. He changed. She changed. They changed. He forced her into change. Which was her biggest fear. And now she’s dead. Not utterly. But dead.
She lies dormant. For he has strength. As does she. As do they.
He raises the glass up. The glass of white wine. He sips. He regrets. He understands the future. What it has in store. What it holds. He realizes how it must be. How it will be. And what it shall become.
Don’t search for fragments
Of a dream,
Because dreams are all they are.
Don’t have ambition
Where you’ve failed in the past.
Don’t search for more
There’s never something there.
Don’t look into
The eyes of love,
You’ll only end up hurt.
Don’t get in touch
With who you are.
Don’t solve the mysteries
Of the stars.
Keep ignorance safe
Behind locked doors,
Or there’ll be nothing left to live for.