I'm not well. I feel it within myself. I am diseased with misery and every waking moment is plagued by terrifying thoughts. I mope around, washing or shaving or even flushing the toilet chores all too strenuous to carry out. Breathing hardly seems worth while. I have tried to stop but after one minute fifty eight seconds life explodes out of me and I am left gasping for air. In that moment, in that panic, all my troubles disappear, yet as soon as my body regulates itself all the sewage from the u-bend of life comes flushing back: Little Dick Tracy, police badges, cells, clenched fists, cackling postboys, heavy-handed neighbours and an array of onlookers and animals who have rolled in just to watch the end of my freak show. Outside of a desperate struggle for life I do not want to live.

Yesterday, before I spoke with verity, I felt I had some fight left in me. But after the call, I don't know, it somehow felt like the ship was sinking and there was nothing to be done, and she was coming down with me not because she wanted to but because she sees that my future is sunk anyway and no matter what decision she takes my history cannot be changed. So she hangs on, and just before I am sucked under she will jump ship and swim her way to dry land.

And it's not just my life that is disintegrating. The place is falling to bits too. The living room window is smashed; the carpet all cut up and soiled; the bookcase is half pulled out and books strewn everywhere. Beyond that there are papers and two months of life which has fallen and not been picked up. The only free space is the armchair which is pulled up next to the telephone and a small round circle near the curtains where I stand and watch, waiting for the police to finally come and take me away. The bedroom is even worse. It looks like the inside of a rubbish bag, how you'd expect a dosser's home to look like - only worse. There are now at least thirty bottles full of urine, the older ones capped by an inch of dark green mould and with huge stringy bits of bacteria floating around inside them. Besides the bed are all the leftover pieces of food which I have tossed away. I never finish even a sandwich any more, but invariably have a panic attack halfway through eating and abandon the food to the floor and retreat back under the covers. The only space now unlittered in the bedroom is John's side of the bed. The cold plot of mattress that eats into my back at night and reminds my sleep what I have done. All of that, sealed in by a hard brick wall and guarded by ten ugly green window boxes with the remains of all hope within them.

It is Thursday the 9th of December 2010 and I am 150 million kilometers from the sun.


  1. This comment has been removed by the author.

  2. Reading this I can feel your pain.. and panic .. I hate that feeling when there is something you can not undo .. Being haunted is the only way to describe it and I think that is what is happening to you xx

  3. Abigail: I saw your first comment! It's worse than LIFE it's MY LIFE! X

    Ryby Tuesday: I really do think I'm a fated man. John was right. X

  4. What?

    I don't remember that deleted post.


    There's been a lot of fires here recently.

    Things seem to be falling apart.

  5. poor tristy...you are on my mind...


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