The clackalack was torture now.
Dulled jingling and jangling forcing its way through my head, oscillating fiercely so I couldn’t think. Eyes bleary, rubbed-red and grating; work had been a nightmare. I daydreamed away the day and nothing had been done.
This job is killing me. There’s too much on the table now, the deal so close to its conclusion and so much left to do, and what then? I knew that this would all be on my shoulders, and I knew that it sickened me to do it.
I could feel my stomach squirm at the thought of tomorrow, ulcers forming there. Two days at the most till the deal was closed, but tomorrow, it was D-day.
Until then, I needed focus, but could find none.
No focus to take the spotlight from me, except the dim and uncertain feelings of self disgust. My day flashing through memory, shunting like a skipping CD, ignoring all logic to flood the mind with the pithy acid of remorse, the most pathetic of all drugs.
And always, interruption, clackalack, clackalack, and I couldn’t think.
It had started two days ago. Fiercely at first, but always the same pattern. Three clacks with a long gap of silence between each, then three clacks, in quick succession, then a gap, then three more quick taps. Always at the same rhythm, never ceasing or stopping.
It was coming from the pipes.
They were an ancient maze that had ran through the building since its erection. They climbed walls and scurried across ceilings, brass and dirty green, covered in globules of ancient dust and grime that would never be cleaned.
And for the last two days they had greeted me as soon as I stepped into the apartment with their incessant jingle. I had told the janitor after some fourteen hours of a sleepless night, but said he had called when I was out and could hear nothing.
I had already called him twice more, I was sure he would come running soon.There was little point hiding from it though. I knew there was no way I was sleeping tonight, pipes or no, and It wasn’t going to kill me. I turned out the lights, and settled down to unsettled squirming. Six hours until work. I started counting the cracks in the ceiling.
In the morning it had stopped. It was replaced with the loneliness of a lost heart beat. I waited for a half an hour, holding my breath until my heart leapt up and hammered my lungs, forcing in sharp inhalations that hurt my chest.
I realised I was hoping it would start again.
A placebo where a smile should be.
Rain pelted the windscreen as I squinted into the distance.
Dread crawled in every direction.
Black and dirty muddy reds slowly reached up through the grey, fighting, like anger and depression, for the brunt of my attention. Trees flitted by, out of focus, the wind heckling through the leaves.
Driving though, and I didnt want to let go of these feelings. Too powerful to let go of.
This time, anger was home.
Anger was pushing the car. Anger was driving. Anger was me, a silent purple hatred cannoning the world with my mind. I wanted to destroy everything in sight. Every life and smile was enemy, breathing was no-mans-land.
The rain spat down.
I've been so used to accepting that I was wrong, overfilled with an invalid emotion, it takes away from the equity of life, steals the beauty of existence. But Jesus, I've been trying to let it go. Ive been trying to let these ulcerous sores heal and become the person that everyone feels I should be, and deserve to be.
Ive been trying to be happy, and to play by the rules for as long as I have had this mind of my own to question with.
I have been trying to be happy.
Good guess. It's not working. It doesnt help. And no need for the sympathy either, the its not that bad pat on the back, the you know you'll be fine hug, the concerned supportive grins. I dont need it.
And in it all, I'm still striving, in my own way to succeed in life. Human nature. Still pushing to find some corner of happiness I can capture, some "happily ever after", if just for a year or two.
But in every endeavour I am left unsatisfied, and it just hit home why.
Im trying to push these agendas of mine forward, but it feels like moving house. My life is trapped in a million different boxes and the more I see of myself, the less I recognise.
Not my life, the happy life of the wellpaid workforce. Nor mine the empty mindlessness of a junkie, nor mine the warmth of wealth, nor the honesty of poverty, nor any niche cut out for me, because I only see hatred in it all. And talent washes away in seconds as I see all I want to acheive in a eulogy that will never be written, because certainty and fate have told me, it will not be long now.
As a being, I am a great and wonderful thing. My life is a force like no other. Unique to a fault, and no other could touch what I have acheived. In the fields of self-doubt, self-hatred and loathing, I have made more progress in four years than most make in a lifetime. My home is the red and cold greys of misery that form numerous pits and chasms throughout my day. Sometimes, I miss these pits, and live my day. Others I fall and slowly climb out. But sometimes, the dirt from that pit clings to me, and I carry it forever. The weight of every worry and fear I have ever had is getting too much now though. I cant push others out, lead them to safety, crack a joke and a smile anymore. No. Too much me is showing up and I know they can all see it. Too close together now, my home and my head, my friends and my sickness, and it has to hit home.
Im not impressing anybody.
Not anymore.
The heady days of feeling like I deserved this are over. Those lost times of oneness, and incredible nights of dreams, hopes and well wishes are all over. All others who thought my existence incedible too are gone, a lesson learned because I would never stop teaching them how pointless I was. They play to me like a charity case now, but all kinship is pushed further and further away, because true friends know when to cull out the herd. And man they are some incredible people. I dont blame them or hold a thing against them. I do not know a single person that I would rather feel alienated from than those that I am.
Not irrational, or fickle, or full of hatred for a world that pushed me away, because its not true.
I did all the pushing.
I saw the high walls of kinship unfold before me, marked out forever as a testament to wellbeing, crafted by those glorious enough and wonderful enough to care about me, to worry for me, and think of me, as I berated them all with problem after problem until eventually I broke them, healed them, pushed them off my cold and empty island to find something more. Pushing them away from me, as though the ship were sinking, and one day soon we would all be taken with it.
And youre thinking run, run you idiot before its too late.
But it is already.
Its too late.
Its too late.
Dread crawled in every direction.
Black and dirty muddy reds slowly reached up through the grey, fighting, like anger and depression, for the brunt of my attention. Trees flitted by, out of focus, the wind heckling through the leaves.
Driving though, and I didnt want to let go of these feelings. Too powerful to let go of.
This time, anger was home.
Anger was pushing the car. Anger was driving. Anger was me, a silent purple hatred cannoning the world with my mind. I wanted to destroy everything in sight. Every life and smile was enemy, breathing was no-mans-land.
The rain spat down.
I've been so used to accepting that I was wrong, overfilled with an invalid emotion, it takes away from the equity of life, steals the beauty of existence. But Jesus, I've been trying to let it go. Ive been trying to let these ulcerous sores heal and become the person that everyone feels I should be, and deserve to be.
Ive been trying to be happy, and to play by the rules for as long as I have had this mind of my own to question with.
I have been trying to be happy.
Good guess. It's not working. It doesnt help. And no need for the sympathy either, the its not that bad pat on the back, the you know you'll be fine hug, the concerned supportive grins. I dont need it.
And in it all, I'm still striving, in my own way to succeed in life. Human nature. Still pushing to find some corner of happiness I can capture, some "happily ever after", if just for a year or two.
But in every endeavour I am left unsatisfied, and it just hit home why.
Im trying to push these agendas of mine forward, but it feels like moving house. My life is trapped in a million different boxes and the more I see of myself, the less I recognise.
Not my life, the happy life of the wellpaid workforce. Nor mine the empty mindlessness of a junkie, nor mine the warmth of wealth, nor the honesty of poverty, nor any niche cut out for me, because I only see hatred in it all. And talent washes away in seconds as I see all I want to acheive in a eulogy that will never be written, because certainty and fate have told me, it will not be long now.
As a being, I am a great and wonderful thing. My life is a force like no other. Unique to a fault, and no other could touch what I have acheived. In the fields of self-doubt, self-hatred and loathing, I have made more progress in four years than most make in a lifetime. My home is the red and cold greys of misery that form numerous pits and chasms throughout my day. Sometimes, I miss these pits, and live my day. Others I fall and slowly climb out. But sometimes, the dirt from that pit clings to me, and I carry it forever. The weight of every worry and fear I have ever had is getting too much now though. I cant push others out, lead them to safety, crack a joke and a smile anymore. No. Too much me is showing up and I know they can all see it. Too close together now, my home and my head, my friends and my sickness, and it has to hit home.
Im not impressing anybody.
Not anymore.
The heady days of feeling like I deserved this are over. Those lost times of oneness, and incredible nights of dreams, hopes and well wishes are all over. All others who thought my existence incedible too are gone, a lesson learned because I would never stop teaching them how pointless I was. They play to me like a charity case now, but all kinship is pushed further and further away, because true friends know when to cull out the herd. And man they are some incredible people. I dont blame them or hold a thing against them. I do not know a single person that I would rather feel alienated from than those that I am.
Not irrational, or fickle, or full of hatred for a world that pushed me away, because its not true.
I did all the pushing.
I saw the high walls of kinship unfold before me, marked out forever as a testament to wellbeing, crafted by those glorious enough and wonderful enough to care about me, to worry for me, and think of me, as I berated them all with problem after problem until eventually I broke them, healed them, pushed them off my cold and empty island to find something more. Pushing them away from me, as though the ship were sinking, and one day soon we would all be taken with it.
And youre thinking run, run you idiot before its too late.
But it is already.
Its too late.
Its too late.
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