Self Loathing

I don't want anybody else

When I think about me

I hate myself

[Tune of Blondie...]

What a wonderfully vicious cycle it is.

***

That was then.  Today is different (subtlely).  I don't know whether I love or hate the decisions I make and then live with.  I don't know whether I love or hate who I am.  What happened last time?  I drank enough to have no memory of events until the morning after.  I danced and made merry and didn't do anything wrong, in that sense.  In my own eyes though, I did everything wrong.  My hangover is psychological too; my heads churns as much as my stomach.

What happened this time?  The same old thing.  I got caught with a girl.  By my girlfriend.  Wait-- I say with a girl, I don't mean with her you know, it is not like we were in the same building or anything.  Just, chat. Words, play, suggestion.

I don't know if I can change.  I mean, I know I could, but I don't know if I want to.  I love the game.  My mother knows it, hell she encourages it.  Always suggesting, get out there, pick and mix.  As strange as it sounds, she speaks the promiscuous voice in my head.

Why do I love the fucken game so?  Why has the appreciation of another -- a non-partner, an interest -- always felt like it matters more, and makes happier than that of the only one I am supposed to be in love with?

I am a manipulator, too.  Is that what all this has been about?  All this flatness; a lack of joie de vivre. That I perpetuate my unhappiness in order to maintain distance from loved ones (including myself) so that I feel less judged by them.  Why should I feel judged?  Because I ignore their wishes, make bad decisions and embrace a nihilistic world.

Embrace another.  Dammit man stand yourself up and embrace another world.  The one where you make things with your hands that you can stand back from and say proudly "this is mine".  Say proudly too this mistake is mine, do not shy away from those things but neither dwell on them.

To self loathe is not to be destructive as much as to just not manage to create.

Well, get out there, and create.

How to destroy your body

Is my health my most valuable possession?  It ought to be right up there, maybe one behind my mind.  There is one very easy way to overcome health.  Stop caring.

Make bad choices.  Stop thinking about what's goes into your mouth or stomach or lungs.  I romanticise this like the righteous path of the wandering traveller.  The one who is always on the road; the one who walks out of people's lives as easily as he walks into them.

Powerless people have no pretences to protect.

By which I mean that it feels good to let down one's guard completely, to the point at which everything is acceptable.  It is dangerous, but it feels good.  The ultimate powerlessness is to no longer hold control over yourself.  To not try; take the path of least resistance.

It thrills me that the path leads to ruin.  That is not to say that I am going there, it is to say that this is a test.  This body is going to get old, that is given; why not give it a good run for its money, while I can?

What If

One year and a day has passed since I broke a girl's heart.  


How can I say that? Fuck. It makes me sound… conceited, smug perhaps.  I have no idea if it's true, either.  That is the thing about ending relationships, you don't get much of a debriefing.  What then? One year ago I broke something.  I suppose I don't know what it was that I broke, nor how big or important it might have been.

Ah yes, we are there.  It didn’t take long.  Might have been. It might have been something, mightn't it?

What is the point of this?  Why, my words -- when they are honest -- seem rather mundane, without flourish.  It is in other places, make-believe ones, that I manage to convey something, to tell a story I might myself enjoy rereading.  Here I am in the most alone place and so also the most true.  Here phrases fall apart before they have begun.  Leaving me with clichés, curses and – it seems – little character.


The vitriole came later. Though it wasn't much. A letter: I was accused of a thing or two.  No screams were screamed; no books were thrown.  Yet... yet, I am somehow, one year on, hung up on this.  Like my jumper is caught on a neverending tree snag.  As I pull at it it unravels it a little, pulls free for a moment, then unravels again.  What is this nonsense.  The point is, one year on, she sure does still have some power over me.  An interesting sort.  Not the 'what would that be like' sort. I have been there.  Is there something unfinished, something I needed to say or do or try?  Is it just that, after all this, I still fancy her.  Am I in love with her?  Do I want somehow to realise all of the possible relationships I ever could have with every girl I have a crush on? Perhaps.

But I digress.  Perhaps because I am reluctant to stick to any topic.  So let’s go. Come on. The break up.  We sat down in a pub and I told her I had feelings for someone else.  She took it well at the time.  We walked out the pub, up the street until her bus stop and as I moved to hug her she allowed it, albeit awkwardly, with the quiet words


"oh, ok"


and I walked away.

Zero

Who are you? Who are you?

I am Theo.  I live in the sky, I live in your eyes.  I dream of coming down one day.  I dream of coming down to stay.  I dream of little less than the whole fucking entirety of it in my arms.  Of squeezing all of that to my chest; of pressing my face into the folds of skin and hair and sandpaper.

I am a small voice.  We are all small voices. Perhaps I am the smallest. Perhaps not. No matter.

What matters is this.  I write because I am driven to write.  I want words.  I want words written down.  I need them.  I need words like a monk needs peace, like a nun needs cock.

It won't all be nonsense.  It won't.  If one person reads these words, that will be more than enough.  Ah but now I must succumb to the sweet charms of the bottle.  It dozes and drugs me and drags me under, slowly.