ten reasons

"Ten good reasons to stay alive, ten good reasons that I cant find"

Courtney Love, for a certain breed – or perhaps generation – of us, embodies everything that there has to be said about life. She has Kurt’s kid for Christ’s sake. she’s getting old. she’s done a lot of drugs. she’s starting to look back on mainly ”stupid” actions.

Enough said on the subject, for as I sit here I can feeling myself growing increasingly uncomfortable. My feet feel restricted, sweaty in these football socks. My eyes feel hidden behind layers of black powders and paints. Everything is unnatural, strained, including my bodies limitations in heat like this, when I haven’t eaten in three days. I think I will die. I know I will die. It’s a matter of when. And WHY.

And right now, well. I’m ambivalent. What will be will be.

I’m not in the mood to do it myself, but if nature wants to. Well. I’ll let her. I’m not in a struggling mood. I just want to sit here, my eyes closed, sweating in the heat, head heavy on my aching neck. I want silence, I want the sun’s rays. I want to feel new. Or empty.

I have a blister where some plastic I was melting fizzed and popped and some of it landed on my finger. It swelled up, I can feel the heat in it still, it still feels like its burning. Like the anxiety churning away in my chest. I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack, chest pains, burning sensations, pins and needles, stress, I’m out of my mind with it.

I don’t know whether to feed the feeling or to try calm it. Neither seems to be working. The feeling becomes ever more centralised, focusing itself into one spot ready to burst bloodily from my chest. I’m expecting my skin to split and for all this poison to spill out, shoot out, covering the room in its foul, sticky, infectious resin. Black, bubbling, smoking.

My fingers hurt, a throbbing sharp pain, which makes me want to bite my finger tips off.

I close my eyes, I sit and wait. For it all to go away.

But it never will. No matter how hard I bite down on my finger tips, praying for even the most superficial feelings of numbness.

It is strange – isn’t it – how we pray for things, even if we doubt god.

Or God. Or the Gods.

We want to believe, we just feel misled if we do. After all, that’s the world we live in. If you cant se it, if there are no wires protruding from it’s plastic outer casing, or if there is no teeth and heartbeat then it doesn’t exist. It couldn’t possibly be real.

How many times do we ask ourselves what is real? What the fuck is ‘real’?

What does it mean…

We try hard to define words like love and hate and angst, but they are just letter formations which shape out things we can only understand by emotion. The letters

R…E…A…L

What do they shape out?

(This approach feels journalistic, this whole ‘article’ so far feels journalistic. Shape – to me – is such a media word.)

I began in a bad mood. And I’m pretty sure this article will finish on a fairly similar tone. I’m sorry. Yes. I apologise. I don’t like to spread the misery, but sometimes it cannot be helped. And this is one of those occasions.

I want to be selfish today. I want to share my misery today. You don’t mind. You are smiling a little, Your hands are shaking where you are still hung over from last night. A mug of cold tea skins over in front of you. You have your favourite socks on.

Enjoy your simple pleasures.

And yes, it is possible to type a whole page with one thumb, while biting down on the other one. Try it sometime.