I’m fine

The humiliated and trampled haunted my mind as I lay at the end of the stairs. After a hellish climb, I reached what looked like my grave. I wished they forced me into psychiatry and then flattened me, so I would know nothing more, a ‘Tabula Rasa’. Fucking nothing more. The Tao physically implanted so that I can also mentally be nothing and everything, so the furious rhythm will stop racing through my brain.

‘Let’s learn to enjoy the pain first, only then we will be happier!’ I don’t participate. Kiss them … once again my reflections see through me and leave me as an empty shell. Then there’s the boos, the shit, because, you don’t know, don’t want to feel anymore. ‘Cause it eats at you, the invisible, that which you lost somewhere along the way.

The rawness of my guts were still swimming across the floor when she called, the lady from the market, the lady with whom souls clicked, my male-slash-female counterpart.

Where the fuck were my glasses! Gone. Shit, probably lost along the way, when I banged my bike on a work stand of accumulated sand this morning. I smelled my breath for a moment, no, terrible, I can’t receive anyone like that. Glance in the mirror, my eyes dark and sunken away, like a mime whose make-up has come off during the rain.

I stumbled downstairs.

She stood there with a wide smile, which quickly subsided when she saw me.

I told her: ‘Mmh, mmh come back tomorrow.’

She nodded, said nothing more, and left. She probably smelt the reek of destruction from my mouth. She with whom I had been verbally intimate disappeared into the mist before my eyes. Intimate in thought. She didn’t come back.

A failed gem escaped from my mind, I scribbled it up and then threw it away.

    I was so cracked up that I
    crawled on my knees 
    and begged
    - please, help me
    but there was no one
    who listened
    melancholia isn't sexy
    a voice said to me

Alone and pitiful I nestled in a pool of muck, what I was already thinking, I became intense.

‘I’m a loser baby so why don’t you kill me?’ rattled Beck.

Monotonous drivel. Stop. Damn Irish beer. Now, clean up, the venom I’ve had to bear and cast out this week.

‘All I wanna do is have some fun,’ moaned Sheryl Crow.

Despite an extreme form of biological cleansing, I still felt bad.
It’s apparently deeper than my stomach.

End of love interest 3001.