Another night.

Wasting away! passing each sober moment of each day with lies and alcohol to make work into play. I’m just in denial; I don’t know what I’m doing and nobody else does either. There’s only a certain extent to which you can trust in faith, the rest of the distance needs to be carried with utmost care and guidance; I still count as being young, and while I do I still have a chance. The second I turn into an adult there’s nobody to help me, there’s nobody to make sure I do the right thing anymore.

But whatever. That’s days away. For now I can sit in my underwear, drinking wife-beater at four in the morning simply because I wish there was somebody to share my sheets with me. I hear the neighbours tap away at my long-ceased music, themselves each wishing to blame someone else for their recurring nightmares. Just like me; each time the sun sets the darkness reminds them of their soiled souls; of how they fucked up and didn’t realise the opportunity when it presented itself. Each night the memories lean off from the walls, away from the shadows cast by the day’s usual trials and avoidances. The hatred and the pain seep back, eager to be remembered. it’s always easier to blame someone else, and the price for doing so just creates further self-hatred that spawns more anger. The vicious spiral that we are all in danger of entering if we decide to be lethargic and let life carry it’s course.

And isn’t that the sad thing? Life, by default, is horrible. The homo sapiens is indeed cursed with such strong self-awareness – sturdy enough to enable us to think we deserve something— anything besides hard work and turmoil. So distant from nature that we think we are on the automatic track to success, when we don’t even know what success is.

So my neighbours continue to hammer their brooms against my ceiling, or bash their pans against my walls. They’re older than me, and ‘settled’, as it were. One neighbour has just discovered her husband has been having an affair for the last four years so her precious ‘perfect life’ has been shattered. She can no longer define herself as the perfect wife, and is struggling to come up with anything beyond wife – and for a similar reason is clearly not going to divorce herself from that title. Three kids and a dog are besides the point , she thinks. Just what will the neighbours think if I divorce him? And as such, she shunts her dilemma onto the soles of my walls, pretending it’s my late night lights are preventing her from sleeping.

The couple in the apartment above had a miscarriage. Their first one. They’ve been trying for kids for the last four years, and they’re unfortunate enough to have their bedroom right above mine. They knock on my door and claim that my kids are playing computer games at 3am, preventing them from sleeping when they know full well that I have no kids and it’s a pornography soundtrack, and that they normally don’t hear it because they’re asleep, thus the only reason they’re complaining is because they’re awake arguing over whose fault is is the unborn baby died. They’ve fought for years over the fact that they’re utterly wrong for each other, hoping that bringing some unsuspecting life into the world would solve their marriage problems rather than talking to each other.

It’s always struck me as odd, the way people change when the sun goes down. Some people blame it on tiredness; overworking or some sort of act of preparation for the next day, when the truth is that without the light watching over us we seep back into our soiled selves, rich with childhood trauma and deep with illegitimate reasoning. it’s easy to shout at other people, to shove blame on passers by, especially compared to attempting to look in the mirror and stare yourself down, humming you are me. We age together. We are the same.

I strike a match, releasing the locked-up carbon-monoxide and tar in my cigarette and toke it down. I sit on my porch-step, back-door open and lounge light stretching over the lawn. The grass is reaching knee-height, finally covering the spreading clover-weeds and giving the impression of potential to my garden to any onlooker – myself, of course, fully aware of the falsehood of such a word combined with my pawltry lot. The old barbecue at the end of the yard is met with hunched-over branches from the stunted sycamore tree. The garden could be divided by several traditional methods, but realistically it is all just one mass of unfulfilled plantation, all fighting to invade each other’s plots, trying to prove to some unwatching flora-goddess that they deserve the true claim of King Of The Yard.

I quickly remember I can’t blow smoke rings – especially outdoors, and try to savour the last quarter of my rolled cigarette. During the day my feet burn at the touch of the smouldering concrete but at night it feels comforting, the cold drawing the twitches from my legs. I rest my arms on my knees and hang my head between, crossing my wrists. The dog three doors down barks away some intruder. Or perhaps distracting it’s own exile outdoors by trying to signal other hounds in the territory. The distant sound of cars whooshing past jolts me from my rest. The stars aren’t as bright as they used to be. I reach around besides my thights, fingering for the can of beer. Just as I smile with acquaintance I remember it’s my last one, and grimace at the thought of giving in to the moonlight.

If this was a movie, the crickets would be chirping. The garden would have some sort of animal life agitating it, but instead it’s the chill of the night that rises through my buttocks. I sigh animatedly, almost wishing for voyeurs.

If yesterday was anything to go by; the sun rises in two hours.

Another night.


Joined July 2008

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Artist's Description

Bleh. Another piece of thought-trailing. partly based on myself but, in terms of content, largely just chaotic imagination.

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