Random Boo

All through Space and Time balanced on a rhythm of lemons and lime, a puppet-master’s precarious rhyme, of an elusive design, that ponders down a bottle of a cheap red wine.

A nonentity it has become this trivial existence, but a small light switch, in this small small room, that must forever be left in darkness. The clattering sound of a telephone’s bell screaming echoes down the abandoned hallways of my mind; the hallways that were once filled with so many characters, and are now so, no more. Old forsaken dispositions like barbarians at the gates of Rome, deviously scheming in their packs. They fancy me dead; they desire me dead; I hear them, all of them. As their fate becomes mine… I don’t want to leave, I do not want to leave….

Alas, this will be my last post…

Two point twenty-five litres of plonk, twenty-three fags, and seventeen Hobnobs past midnight, I am painting the Cheese Strings black. A silhouette of a swinging dud 40-watt bulb taunts the rubber glove that is my mind. Mocks me, plays me, and dances on the very reflection it scorned. Well it was half the truth, in the sense that it’s the good bit with the fat cut off, enjoy the fat! Are you happy? Who is? I do not know, I guess no one is really. Nothing is perfect; it would contradict with the said concept if it ever were. I love the sea, I miss the sea. It’s something about the waves crashing against the shore that sounds like a symphony of poetically captive sovereignty. The sea comforts me, like a feeling of home, in a loners devilishly self-gratification. I am the floating egg in the boiling pan of the conformists despair! Look her in the eye, turn away and sigh, every chance a last, every look a first. She stands there, slumped to the right, a burdening requirement of illogical light. She of such profound beauty, one man’s neglect of duty, another man’s treasure, a second hand pleasure. A stolen kiss, a stolen time, but she never was, neither is, nor ever will be mine. Maybe I was born too late, maybe she was born too early. Maybe instead of wine, I’ll have a Curly Wurly. Who knows? But you’re not carving my grave, smile and wave boys, smile and wave…

Funny how life can make you feel dead, like reminiscences of a girl called Fred, yes, it’s called creative control, you don’t like it then change the channel, philosophical by Chanel. Look Ma, it rhymes. Like a cat flap in the Radio Times. Look at you, you pathetic sell out, what happened to the rebelling anarchist of the poignant illusion? I got my rivalling bite from a bug of alternative disposition. I’m a new me because, as so often in my life, I shed a skin and become a new. Not always by choice but never regretted. All elements to a bigger picture like a paint stroke on the canvas of what was and is, my concluded individuality, which will be, as for everyone, presented in a box. Enjoy your retirement.

It’s the summer of discontent in a twist of intentional winter wannabes that be this generation of self-pitying sloths. The canvas of creativity needs a wash of monotonous shades for the vivid colours of individuality to strike the foundation of what ‘is’ by comparison ‘was’. By definition, what is fashionable – is boring. In a world where every snowflake is identical, beauty is disappearing with the socks in the washing machine. I yearn for the splendour of what was the majestically infecting disbelief of the ‘should’ anarchist. Welcome to the happy house, we are in fact sane, but only by a selective contrast. Cocktail parties, football games, bar mitzvahs, political rallies, and even nations are all social realities. They aren’t figments of anyone’s imagination; they’re real, really really real, objectively real. However, at the same time, they’re all made up entities, at least in a sense. Cocktail parties exist only because a group of people get together and say, “we’re having a party now”. People just sort of decide that these things are going to exist, and so, they do. Social realities are just creations of the human mind, not individual human minds, but collections of human minds. Is it fashionable to categorize fashion? Too many human minds, too many people, far too many people in this world, only really need about six, look at you all, all over the place like a nest of pigs! Is it fashionable to categorize yourself? There is a difference between being a movement and following a movement.

Alone I am perched upon my rigid chair within my frigid chamber. It’s dark and gloomy, deeply obscured by inky shadows devouring the warmth, devouring the very soul, devouring the very existence of the room. Only the echoing pulsation of a clock drumming its piecing rhythm remains. This is my chamber, this is my life. I find myself lost in a pointless void, with neither reason nor benefit to persevere life. What be the purpose in such a life I am burdened with, hampered, trapped in the restraining chain of anxiety that be the very existence of I? I’m a talent-less fool with nothing but a dream I can not translate, nothing but a concept of life I can not understand, like an inkless pen I stand here inanimate, in the shadow of my own dream, a nonentity. With all my sins and foul judgements, I am not disorientated, adrift, or astray, I am lost. Everyday this tormenting reminiscence tickles my throat, a sort of displacing and desiccated feel that submits me to sensations of sickness. I can’t even look myself in the mirror anymore without diverse feelings of defeatism and loathing as my mind becomes segregated from me. I seem to have washed my hands of myself in an attempt to rid myself of hurt and hate, I am not me, and I will never want to be.  I welcome the utopia of death, I desire the worlds end. I hate the human species, no compassion; I have no sympathy for them at all. They have overstayed their welcome. They are corrupted with greed like lust and gluttony. The mentality of Hitler, the self-discipline of Roscoe Arbuckle, and about as useful to the world as Graham Norton, This is not madness, this is simply observation.

An epiphany has dawned, forgive my previous haste towards the aforementioned sin, I am no sinner, how can I be? It’s fictional like evil be just opinion. I feel a self disrepute, but how can I be shameful of particular reminiscences when only I have knowledge of them. Who is judging me?
However, innate personality also nonexistent therefore said memories is me, I am the product of my upbringing. One should then embrace these sin labelled memories as token. Life is no test!
As contradictory as the following statement may sound I insure you it is not. You must realize that there is no rabbit hole. The meaning of life is the desire of life. Emotional obstructionism is the human sphere, a nucleus manipulating the pulses of the self renders our one desire into a multifaceted intricate imagination of aspiration however utterly insignificant, and all the splendour is this bio-contraption simply desires life, nothing more. I am no sinner.