clinging to the wreckage

As the baby next door screams, I am caught in dreams of the dark Christ, my dark Christ, once my brief nemesis; I partake in the forbidden; being alone... enjoying a drink alone. Out there they know not ‘alone’ and they cannot, in the wildest and darkest recesses of their minds, imagine being alone and consuming alcohol. No television, no people... just a gentle alcoholic drink and the soothing sounds of a classic album titled Agent Orange. The forgotten man living on the highs of a brief encounter, in which he was not even first choice, all the while wondering why it is that the others simply disappear into black night and can’t bring themselves to so much as reply to a brief message to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or ‘go away’.

You give me hope where there is no hope. My American Beauty… we met many years ago and since then you have forever been a part of my life but in recent times we have grown much closer and the conversations now drive me on. The potential that lurks in the future… the potential of our meeting once more and celebrating later this year… fills me with a rare desire for life… an almost unknown positive feeling. I know it is almost a hopeless hope but it feels pleasant to have something to cling to no matter how vague it may be. It feels great to awake to those messages and to know that, as you sit awake into the deep night across the Atlantic, you’re sending those to me.

Tonight I feel a sadness for everyone and everything… for all the sorrow and suffering in this world. I feel remorse for every single person who is hungry or in pain or sick or afraid or heart broken or even disappointed. And why is it that animals, children, and adults are abused, beaten, neglected, and hurt? Why are families torn apart by illness, distance, crime, and death?                 I realise how fortunate I am in so many ways at times like this. Yes, I have suffered loneliness and I have been hurt physically, emotionally, and mentally. Yes, I have experienced loss through death and loss through people losing interest and walking away. I have seen my parents suffer and I’m greatly distanced from them. And yet I have loved beautiful and intelligent women. I have fascinating male and female friends. I am appreciated at work. I have travelled freely and I have had opportunities that many millions of people have never had. I am grateful for those who came along and gave me

And with a glass of red wine comes a sense of peace... even though a hula hoop that I ate was burnt to carbon and the taste of that has left me scarred. The wine is an attempt to remove the taste of this burnt offering but, sadly, it is not succeeding even if it is helping to numb the senses.                 And, all the while, so many ghosts... so many resurrected ghosts... so many memories of longings past... this day was a day of seeing people from the past. A certain element of joy followed by a cross-examination in an office I shall soon grow to miss. Text book vernacular and corporate jargon are often our close companions from Monday to Friday as we all wish our lives away in waiting for the pathetic weekend. The weekend arrives and then what?                 Smile... smile... smile.. it’s not so bad.

Thank you for reminding me that no one really cares. No one asks how you are because they are not interested and, what’s more, they are afraid that your answer will be too laborious. And, so often, your answers are that way; long and drawn out and boring. Many people ask how you are because they want to tell you how they are and they don’t want to wait for you to tell them about your life before they begin unfolding their trivialities. Daily discussion is all so banal. I’m tired. I’m tired of listening to the intimate details of ordinary material objects being discussed. There are people I want to get my hands on… and with whom I want to talk about the pleasures of life, but that is where it ends. Sadly, at this point in time, such pleasures are not to be mine.

Through music and literature I have once more found a wave to carry me through dark times. I find strength in the art of those who look to reason and questioning to find meaning in life; those who struggle and see the bad aspects of life but who try to bring about some good through secular means and not because they are told to do so by an ancient doctrine.                 Also, I feel pleased to have finally found the courage, in spite of financial fears and commitment fears, to register to begin the Master’s Degree in English this year. It helps to be actively engaged in something worthwhile whilst also finding people to whom one can relate even if many of them are already dead.                 I read a poem that listed dead writers. The poet used this list to point out that artistic creativity is often perilous… or at least produced by people who often live on the brink. They are a sensitive people who feed on the pain of life to fuel their creations. Sadly, this pain often