Selflessly Selfish

Anxiety and more so, depression, renders one selfish. This much is true. So both the realisation of that and the weighty notion of continuing to belittle everyone and everything around me indefinitely was, is and may be in times to come, my predominant cure for the great inexplicable. The big A and D. Those demons uncalled for, holding my mind hostage. I cannot do this to my loved ones and shun my oblivion whilst doing it. Inflicting pain and incurring the same. The paradox of course: how can one establish their selfishness until they are finally, selflessly out of their mind?


In Praise of Routine

boy with a hat

Man table work routine

Routine isn’t most people’s favorite word. Many try to escape it any way they can. But can quality be achieved without the repetition and regularity that characterize routine?

However tedious a routine may be, sometimes it’s often preferable to the stress and disabling tension of not knowing what to do or how to do it. With routine usually comes familiarity, constancy, and security. When you have a routine, it’s easier to have a plan. And when you have a plan, it’s easier to set objectives and track.

Routine is deeply integrated in the human mind. The mind needs structure and familiarity to function well. It sees patterns everywhere, it creates repetitions, it generates habits. Take the master of routine Himself, the Sun. What would happen if the Sun relinquished its routine and showed up on different days at different hours? Would we still exist?

Routine becomes tedious when it’s not…

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Post mulled whine/Pixies sesh

Try and capture your visual moment by way of captioning with another’s captivating words? By one shredded soul kind enough to share to the herds? Oh back your sticky fingers away into a tight fist and knuckle down. Capitulate. To your own raw sentiments gone awry. Less imitation of processed one’s hard done by.




Boxing Day, as far as I can remember, has always been marked by the following: a serious OD of nostalgic pop. media , binge-eating and a sort of inevitable (welcome, almost) spot of the blues – for which the first two activities  are the only cure now. A general indoorlence (strictly indoor indolence) lies at the heart of my post Christmas days. And yes, everything about that last sentence says I must get out more…but Hey! (NP, The Pixies)


Levitate me



They won’t leave

You tell me how I can remain
This walking talking
Smoking coking
Gainsayer extraordinaire
Bursting with a ton
Blue mist
That was no joke mother
That was a matter of dead and deader
Can’t fix a thing in either state
Please take me there
Dropping little babies and grand heirlooms in my wake
Wending my way through flame
Climbing root to spire making bloody tracks for my ghosts
They won’t leave me
So I plan to make this easier
This way, please
Oh even you my cute little chagrin
I’ll scoop you up you rotten cunt
Snug in my arms, close to my chest, my heart
Change is for the greatest
So I harbour this fugitive
Sitting on the top of a stairwell in my brain.
Smile but don’t look too closely
You undo him
And I fucking bury you alive.


Something more

And suddenly, I need something more. Like the artist stood before blank canvas, longing for his muse. The writer’s block hit hard, pen poised frozen, time’s up pal. The lyricist hit a wall, deafened by dour silence that will not bring to bear his words. Stop the bullshit music. Give me something real. What’s more give yourself something you can feel, thus get away from me. It makes me sick you acting slick but you don’t really see that. Even if you do I don’t think it would really ail you. Naturally I must salute you for your ability to run on nothing more than your own self-approval. I myself need something more. Perhaps even something in lieu of that sycophantic validation to fare well henceforth. So raise it. Here’s to something more. Here’s to not looking back at a thing I abhor or, for that matter, adore. It’s time to get going, high time I did my time. Make no mistake, it is your crime. You don’t see that. It is for that reason I’ll happily do your time. It’s not all bad, I get to make it mine. My own and on my own.


Angel of mine

Once I stabbed an angel to death. Bled him right out, gut and soul. Struck at his very core. Again and again and again, going harder every turn. Til his wings did capitulate. Til his eyes widened doll-like but strangely, did not cease to water. So he lay moribund, what a thing to behold. My work was done. My conscience bailed, now what on earth is morality? Not long after, I expected him to fly for me. Fly, pretty, fly. Why won’t you fly? I killed his flight and couldn’t comprehend why my angel wouldn’t fly as he once did! I produced once more the dirty blood and brain-coated blade and stabbed some more at the angel’s stark body still so pretty, that he might put a stop to this ridiculous, petty show and wake the hell up. You don’t have to believe me. I know what I did.

That is the monster I once was. I would dance with the devil, for ages after the damn song had even stopped. I tired the devil out, he sat the fuck down and watched me work. He feared for his name. One more graceless move I’d be plying his trade he’d be mine to deliver. Thanking me, that’s what.

I would rather lay with my demons than learn to swim with my angel. Would. No will, no more. No longer. I cannot be this one moment longer. But fuck, for the love of all things pure, unintelligible, why? Why had I been this? Is this innate? Is this fun for you? Lord is this supposed to be fun for me?

A beautiful resurrection ensued. My angel babe. The blissful sun did well to dry up the river of tears he had wept. Never again would a river form in a manner so bleak so grey, nor run for a monster fallen so far from grace. His deadened locks flaxen had gleam once more, his ashen complexion replaced with cheeks rosey. He ran and he climbed far far away. A certain bravado he took in his stride. Surefooted man like you never did see. Man is jovial. Man revived. Far removed from me and all that surrounded, the stale air, the putrid flesh I bear, pitch black skies riddled with wispy specters and stars to put a curse on you if you look at them too long. Sea of stinking rotten cadavers at my feet. I don’t know where to journey so I learn to call it home. Unlike most, he always knew where he needed to be. Man moves onwards, upwards. Man is tough. Strength is honour and honour, glee

I’m so proud of the man I see it’s a kindness that I set him free though never another like him for it is he hope another angel lies in wait for me.


What is it

It’s quite the cruel world out there. Worse than having to bear sadness and regret is knowing that I have the means to impose it on others. With feelings, lack of them, whim, frailty, my ghosts, my love. Have done. May very well do in times to come. Lose honour. No one won, no one will so what really is this. An entire being made of dead blue maggots. So weak, all filth and putrid heart. I don’t want to.I don’t want this power. Take it from me. Being human, it’s a gift and it’s a curse. It’s a gifted curse.

I will love it, live it, leave it one lifetime as we are meant to.