Rust

Some kind of rust is consuming the bath. It’s the colour of an Australian sunset, the kind of sunset I long to see,

And it grows in lazy tendrils, creeping towards the tiles.

 

 The bath has somehow become detached from the wall, so every time I move, the bath moves, and gallons of water sloshes onto the crusty lino floor.

 

 Within an hour that water will have seeped through – floor to ceiling – and be dripping onto the face of my sleeping neighbour.

 

 My cigarette has gone limp, the damp air assaulting it, but still manages to burn gradually towards my fingers.

A moth attempts – but repeatedly fails – to get through the window.

Possibly attracted to the light.

I have three reminders for an eight pound electric bill.

 

 Eight pounds forty four to be precise, unpaid.

Why do they give us things before we’re certain we want to pay for them?

To keep us indebted.

To make us feel obliged.

I have a fear of obligation. Is there a name for that?

Obligitus.

Maybe.

 

 I’m no doctor, so you can trust me.

 

 What would be my ultimate fantasy job?

No job at all.

But it would be cool to be a rockstar, or an artist, or a screenwriter.

Maybe even a brain surgeon.

But I am a writer.

 

 You think writing is a noble profession?

It is not. You tell the truth. The dirty truth. You confess the sins of all humankind. You destroy them, humiliate them. You bare their soul to the world, and then you become their genius.

Writers are dirty, filthy traitors.

They reveal every secret any trusting friend told them to the world,

Sick.

 

 =                   =                  =                 =                   =                   =

 

 

 

I am just a human. Another one. Struggling to find the words, struggling to mean what I say.

 

I was born, in a hospital, from a woman, the same as everyone else.

 

I don’t have kids, or a permanent job, I am not in a relationship.

 

I don’t pay taxes, or vote, or like the queen.

 

But I am human.

 

I do breathe, and think, I sometimes fall in love.

 

I do resent other humans, and sometimes wish I was a cat, or an eagle.

 

But I am only human.

 

I am sitting on a hard plastic chair, scratching my neck – which aches – the window is open, my neighbour is mowing the grass. Even when she reaches a hidden corner of the garden I can still see her in the angled reflection of the open window pane. Except here she is transparent, and occasionally blurs into double-vision, like a psychedelic light show.

 

If I can see her I wonder who else can.

 

<pclass=”MsoNormal” style=”MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt”>The view from my window offers a panoramic view of the neighbourhood. I have been here for three days, without moving, without missing a thing. Occasionally I have sung sad songs through my dry cracked lips, or moved to stamp out pins and needles in my feet. But I have not missed a thing; the light changes, leaves becoming silver – coming to life – under the translucent dark shines of night or the liquid gold that soaks the concrete – making it sweat – during the daylight hours.

 

I imagine our planet colliding with another, the huge earth masses crashing, crushing, and Joan of Arc turning in her grave. Of course the results would depend on which planet we collided with. Mars for example, the fiery planet, now that would be horrific, but … beautiful. Jupiter would obliterate us, being the biggest planet and all.

 

I am only human.

 

I often wonder about predestination. I mean I don’t believe in it, but I don’t doubt it. It’s probably true, we just don’t like to think it is, we humans. But there’s so much to take into account, for a start there has to be ‘something’ to predestine you, to plan everything for you, and that’s always a challenge to consider. That’s without thinking why they chose you – in particular- to go through certain things.

 

I mean, is there just a system? Every third person born will be alcoholic, every sixth will have an abusive partner, and every ninth will die at twenty? Do you get your own spirit to back it up, make sure it all goes to plan? And what happens if they interfere and change things? Do they get punished by ‘the great spirit’, or is there no great spirit and just a board of spirits, a democratic spiritual association of decision makers.

 

You see how hard all this thinking is? It takes up all my time, all my energy. And when I’m not thinking like this I’m trying to make someone else think like it. Trying to lure them into my lifestyle, like a lifestyle saleswoman.

 

You know we are all lifestyle salesmen and women aren’t we. Every time we step out the door, dressed as we are, we say ‘my life is better then yours’. We try to one-up people we’ve never even met before. It’s so infantile. We are constantly in this schoolchild mission – who’s cooler then who.

 

More often then not we hide behind collective identities to share this lifestyle obsession too. I couldn’t possibly just be me, oh hell no, I link to people that are like me, I buy things that remind me of me, of what I want to be, I hide behind the collective identity of ‘me’.

 

There are many identities and forms this can take.

There’s the truly wealthy of course, but everyone knows they don’t count.

 

 Next families are my favourite example. Everything they own and wear is purchased from Next, they drink fruit juice in the summer, and wear pink shorts and flowy skirts. The kids have blonde, blossoming curly hair, and toothy smiles. Stay-at-home mums and white collar worker dads. Holidays on Spanish islands, occasional dinner parties, perhaps the odd barbeque. Yes, I know their type. Often the children from these families grow up and claim to like ‘rock music’. This usually means they go to V festival once a year to jump up and down to middle of the road indie music. There is nothing revolutionary about them. Unfortunately they make up most of the population.

 

There are young, professional childless couples, which often become Next families in time. They go to bars on the weekend and paint their hand built shelves on their other days off. They congratulate themselves on their empty, hollow lives, but secretly often feel something is missing. Some of these were grungers when in high school.

 

Grungers, Punks, Goths and all other such groups. Some work jobs, some don’t. Some have lives others don’t. It s a mixed rabble, but a rabble all the same. A collective identity of ‘otherness’. It’s a powerful club to be a member of.

 

Then there’s the junkies and addicts. My favourite by far. There is no identity, as such, being part of this group is just a hollow faced slumber party for one.

 

There are many other groups, I have just highlighted the ones most easy to spot. The others often lie hidden, obscured into one of the above mentioned groups, but not really belonging there either. 

 

It all starts with wanting to belong. Being ‘only human’.

And this we are all guilty of.