I’d been alone for all of an hour and I was already out of things to do. I’d tried sleeping, it had failed. I’d laid on top of the bed for 45 minutes and it helped somewhat, but I wasn’t paying off the debt I owed to Orpheus. I spent 15 minutes having my flank, thigh and hand mauled by kittens as they tried to eat each other. This is when I had a literary coniption and decided to write.

I’d lifted and lugged for 8 hours in a busy supermarket, on a Saturday. I was running on 3 hours sleep and was most likely delirious. ‘Delirium is just another form of inspiration’ I thought. I was full of shit. Of course I was full of shit, I’m a writer. It’s part of the job. So, now I’d written what I’d done today. Where do I go now?

I can’t be bothered to re-experience the trauma of an entire autobiography. Not without something to remove me from the emotions. Perhaps I could slip into another dimension, which was exactly the same, expect Prince was still alive. Would Prince make that much of a difference? Perhaps he’d write his true magnum opus and spread a message of love and unity across the people of the planet. Or perhaps people would be confused by his lack of symbolic nomenclature and completely ignore it.

Fuck that alternate dimension.

Perhaps an alternate dimensions where the kitchen suddenly explodes. But that feels harsh. There are small, furry animals in there and it’s not my house.

Perhaps I could write about the future.






Urgh. I’d rather have writers block than this fatigued state. But, that’s what you get when you spend the wee hours before a 6am shift imagining the worst possible outcomes of an increasingly tense situation.

I can’t even begin to muster some evocative imagery or metaphorical landscapes describing my mood and situation. Is this just a big whine? Am I just an efficient Holden Caufield. Not even bothering to call everyone else posers, just straight up admitting that I’m the poser. Pretending to be some kind of spoken word poet. Is that title just the result of a sequence of events that have thus far timed perfectly with my manic episodes. Or are these events feeding the mania, triggering the episodes. Does it work like that?

Who gives a shit? I don’t think I particularly care right now.

I’m terrible at this.

I’m tired.


I’m always fucking tired. I owe Orpheus so much fucking time.

Let’s start again.

The rucksack sits slackjawed, drooling shirts and jeans from it’s gaping maw. It’s zippers all undone and it’s luminous orange insignia falsely suggesting grace. Beyond it, the printer sits perpendicular to the wall. It’s the only thing that’s not strewn across the floor. A pile of notebooks are wonkily piled on top of each other, with a pen for each one. One of which has feather hair atop a clicker-head. My legs are starting to go dead, but hey, I ain’t going anywhere. The computer across the room has google open. It’s slotted mouth eagerly anticipating words, the black line blinking at me.

‘Feed me’ it says.

‘Fuck off” I reply.

I think about rolling a cigarette, but I’ll end up dehydrated from it. This would require getting a drink from the kitchen. Which would require traversing the minefield of tiny, feline bodies darting from corner to corner. I’d also likely have to wash a glass and OH MY FUCKING GOD THAT’S SO MUCH EFFORT.

My thoughts inevitably drift to my own social ineptitude. I’ve spent so long not being around people, I’ve forgotten how they work. How I work around them. How the things I do, despite best intentions, affect them. All my talk of principles, philosophies and -isms is well and good in theory. But people aren’t theories. They’re clusters of experiences, genetics, nurturing and vested interests. Loyalties lay outside my field of vision. I think this gives me clarity. But it really means I have no clue. Sure, I’m being ‘objective’, but that’s useless when everyone else is being totally subjective.

I need to pick my battles. Help only those who ask for assistance. Let everyone else fall into traps that may only exist in my mind. I’ve seen the wars though. Through letters from the frontline and service myself. I want to stop the wars, to disarm and pacify. But, I can’t choose for people. I can’t speak for people. I can only speak for myself.

Which is a shame. I’m fed up of talking for me. I hate talking for me. However, I shouldn’t talk for other people. Because I’m not them. I can approximate, intuit and follow my instinct. But that’s just shades or facets of identity totality. I know better than to assume I know what to do. I don’t have a clue.

Fuck sake.

Get it together man.

Now the black line blinks hungrily at me on my own screen. Demanding sustenance from my melatonin deprived mind. Synapses fire, but the energy dissipates and hits the back of my skull. Information cascades onto the empty canvas and leaves an indiscernible inkblot on my cranium. I try to think of something Zen to tell myself to crane me out of this muck. But the little Buddha inside me is busy trying to piece the bowl back together with gold. But there isn’t any. I’ve mined it all out and spent it trying to impress other people. Casting magic with no defence from the demons who tie a rope around my words and ride them out of my face.

I managed not to have a depressive or dissociative episode at work. Did I just delay it? Am I about to fall into a quagmire of negative narcissism, in which everything wrong is my fault somehow.

That spiral has it’s own personality within my head. He’s a dick. But often he sees things I ignore, actively and passively. He speaks a truth I dare not. That I’m imperfect. That I’m flawed. That I’m not who I think I am.

“So you came second in the Slam, big fucking whoop. You’re still a shitferbrains. You’re still damaged goods. Don’t forget that fuckface”.

I’m so used to the abuse I give myself it doesn’t even upset me any more. It’s just so fucking boring. It’s the same thing over and over. Which I used to hold to be proof of it’s validity. But it’s just proof of how unimaginative that side of me is. Don’t get me wrong the mania is dangerous to me, but it’s inventive. It sees things differently. It’s idealistic. It wants to help. The other voice, he’s giving himself water poisoning trying to prove the glass of life is half empty.

But he’s necessary.

For balance.

The manic aspect would be a right shit if he didn’t have the yang to keep him on an even keel.

So, maybe I should stop moaning about it. Accept it. Like my fluctuating heartbeat. It may speed up, it may slow down. Sometimes I won’t even notice it. Other times I can’t hear anything else. But it’s made up of two beats, acting as one.

I am a polyrythym, maybe I should play along.


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