Attributes Of Animals- Chapter One -
It was in one of those awkward moments between having the courage to press send and forwarding a message, when after the second it's sent you re-read it for the first time.
That moment full of realisation. The kind of realisation where that sudden awareness turns against you. It turns inwards and turns deep. The worriers war against themselves.
You know the old worries? Worry of truth. Worry of lies. Worry of smiles and worry of cries. Worrying through life over all and nothing. Same old story. Worry of the recipient receiving my message with unclear text. Vague in meaning and evident of my eagerness to send my message without proof-reading or even a simple check. Such a minor threat. Such a cruel major fret. No reply. Yet to know and already It's demeaning. I know what she's thinking. She's thinking I'm illiterate. She's thinking I'm boring and stupid and dumb and who knows, maybe I am. Maybe she's right. Maybe they're all right. The dumbest person alive. I don't feel alive. I hardly feel human any more. Modern conversations. Modern technologies. Mod cons with convenience store deliveries of your favourite tipple at 4.30am in the morning. Now that's convenient when you can't sleep and you're so fatigued that those fatty black sacks below your sunken eyes are puffy. When insomnia keeps you awake and drains your life away in a place that time forgot. Agoraphobic and extremely anxious.
Yes. The old story. The old worry. In those times when a phone rings and just the thought of answering it makes me sweat and my thoughts confuse themselves before it stops ringing. Fucking god forbid it rings again. Can't they text me? Why dont they text me? Why do I need to suggest to people that before ringing me to consider whether their reason for calling me on the phone can be conveniently said by sending a quick text you know? Old school calls with no importance by modern people. 21st century jams love those mod cons don't they? Sms, smn, Pm, facebook with hash tags and Imojis at ones disposal. It's become generic and overused. Kids love it because its mind numbing so social networking is now the easiest drug available on the street and at home and these online interactions have led to-
'#climbbackoutmydms'.
I read it the other day on my newsfeed on a screenshot a chick had posted of her private message reply to a guy who had messaged her and she was pretty chuffed in herself that she had managed to use this response to the guy- #climbbackoutmydms. Whatever that means? #modernphrases. Folk married to their phones these days. Glued to their black mirrors like the screen tells them they're the fairest of all.
Damn outrage if you ask me! Dont break them mirrors!
I've read of curses and omens and perhaps superstition though I remain suspicious about the bad luck we receive, when people are deprived of their self reflections. Although the opposite isn't especially attractive either. Superficially, too much of ones own reflection is just that. Too much and superficial.
So I find people keep telling me that it's all in my head you know? You know what they say about me don't you. Them. They say a lot don't they. Those. They. They say too much. So rightly I ask, why have they so audaciously elected to slander and have a go at my convictions when I'm without any objection of theirs nor crap on their traditions? Why do they care so hostile? Why the attacks? It tells me they piss themselves right off for the wrong reasons. I'm just worried that my entire time will be taken up with worry that for ever I will be surrounded by fake people in masks and damn phonies. My favourite mask is a clownish appearance. Though is a clown in a mask who's therefore disguising, or is it like, 'Hi I'm a costume that's growing on your face'? No, surely a clown's a clown, otherwise who's hiding? I'd be the clown. The red nose. The big feet. The small funny car. Funny and good humoured. The exciting prankster. Zany you know and cool. The entertainer and not like Ronald. Pogo the clown, Hugh Lindsey maybe, or Derry's Pennywise. Down the drain with sharp snarling teeth intending to make you all float. A bit like me, different to most of ya. Same red blood, same oxygen breathing creature with a voice. Damn I hate my voice. I never wanna talk. I just want to sit down at my desk and write. I sit at that desk for hours away from people. Days even. Just writing. I suppose tomorrow I'll go out side again and get an airing.
It's funny you know? Not like a small car funny or a stand up comedian show live at the Apollo, and not like floating dead people being collected and celebrated by a killer clown, or something witchy like that funny. Just funny how I'm thinking will people miss me when I'm gone, like I miss those who's work here has already been completed and I remember them like it was yesterday? Funny like phony people and funny like me drifting away from the planet and returning to find the same phony two faced people growing their third faces. I couldn't blame radiation for that mutation. I find it strange when people say 'lol' out loud. It's funny.
Funny how people say I'm mad, like it's mad what I say or I must be mad saying what I think, like it's mad to be honest you know? I don't know what's mad or not, it's just me. I think how I spent most of my life believing that I'm crazy and considering all reasons how and when I lost my mind and now I think maybe I didn't lose it and really it wasn't ever there. I don't think I lost my mind and kept hoping others could fill in the blanks and those awkward gaps. No, it's just memory loss after a drug fueled life and unstable years with an awkward brain. A brain that's tried to murder it's owner to escape the shell for I've outgrown my corporeal form and yes these are the thoughts I have about the world and people and myself and it's only a start. I think what is really? Or am I the alien that is singled out from the human race as a free thinker. Indifferent to my pears but refused to conform to the flock for I am the wolf. Lone and smart enough to separate away from the hordes and the whores of a sleaze nation. I feel desperate for purpose and raped by bipedal corruption that's never changed. Suffocated by the smoke ring's blown up our asses. Choking on this dusty air and fed medications in many forms, so I'm dormant and less anxious about knowing what they're saying behind me.
'Snakes with tits' my mate says. "snakes with tits goose, is all they are, snakes with tits".
Criss has always been like that, outspoken and ruthless, says it's the trick to keep rich. Such a smart pal. Never awkward when Criss is around. I'm still looking at this damn screen like my life depends on it in a bloody mess. I've done it on purpose. Again, knowing what my triggers are and eagerly I send a message that looks as if I can't spell because an 'a' had been missed out, you know? The 'a' between 'for a catch up' that middle 'a'. Well I missed that 'a' and wrote 'for catch up' and, 'catch' was misspelt too. The damn 't' in 'catch' was actually a '2' so It really read
'for ca2ch up'. Accidently. Another thing so simple to do and I fuck up. So now it's just my harsh reality and her ignorance to cope with and God, I hope that ignorance is bliss because either way, it's another try and another fail and therefore more avoidment. I might ghost her. Snake with tits is what Criss says. Snakes with tits.
My phone beeps. The sound's telling me I've received a text. It's a reply and she's being vague and her reply says she doesn't like being asked out. I tell her she was moaning about never being asked out online and she doesn't reply a second time.
#climbbackoutmydms springs to mind, along with fuck it. In this day and age I could have gender reassignment and become a lesbian then have a better chance of finding a girlfriend, than I have as a kind and honest down to earth neurotic new romantic of the 20th century jam, though I guess we all know what they say happens to nice guys dont we? They say nice guys finish last and they do say a lot. They say it's all in my head. They say I'm mad. They say I'm depressing and they tell me I'm paranoid but in any case, in this modern time, relationships hardly ever work out what ever type they are, like we're all walking our own paths of pre-destined devastation. Remember people go where's convenient. Or greener grass. I think many folk really do underestimate the immensity of the fuck I do not give, aware of the 7.5 billion of us in the world and knowing I feel completely alone.
I'm lonely because I haven't been turned down by everyone yet. Untill then I'm unsure if I'll be lonely when I'm certain I'll die alone. It's like I'm searching for purpose but clearly have lost the inspiration. It's like I'm a product of my environment while feeling cyborg and clairvoyant and fighting off new demons even though they haven't appeared yet. Which is for all our benefits as I am the winner. I can't express this feeling with words. It's like my head is spinning in the opposite direction to the world. My sedation is paramount for all our sakes because I might kill and if I start killing there won't be many of us left out of that 7.5 billion. For I am the extended mount of hot gasses and steam. I am the volcano thought dormant. I am the wolf. I am what is really. The nice guy. The demon. The alien. The indifference and the paranoia in me brings the revelation. The apokolypse and uncovering's of what each of us are guilty of hiding underneath the seams of our fabrics. Will you show yours? You will wear your masks and you will seek protection. Protect yourselves with your disguises. I'm protecting myself keeping from you phonies and you would hide from yourselves if you weren't scared of being alone. I am the winner of this game of survival. I am where you all float, so laugh out loud and laugh your loudest. For I am the clown. I am anxiety. I am reality. The old worry.
Same old story.
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