The Failure

I woke up this morning and wanted to write a story. this happens occasionally, although not always in the morning, but instead of aborting whatever had been conceived between sleep and waking, as I would ordinarily do, this morning I decided to sit-down and write.

This urge to write is shared by every other narcissistically self-hating person who cannot sufficiently rely on their looks, their charm or any useful skills to receive the validation and love they so cravenly desire.

So of course, the story I wanted to write was ultimately about myself; an attempt to create an image with which to present to others, to communicate that which I can’t seem to convey in any other form. This is not the story I intended to write, but I ask you to accept as true the following statement: The events in this story have occurred in reality, though perhaps my retelling of them would not quite match those of others who were witness to them…

The decision to write was made possible by the fact that I don't need to go to work – I haven't been working for the previous three weeks – owing to what I call “an episode”, but which the sick-note my Doctor gives to me calls 'Bipolar Affective Disorder'.

A desire to create a distance in the relationship I have with my relationship to myself, is the reason why I've decided to abandon the first-person perspective in this story.


The Author, like every other mammal, has two main preoccupations: pleasure and pain.

The Author liked to believe that they pursued both with Dionysian zeal.

The Author despises boredom, deeply, with the kind of hatred that only fear can create. The Author was once fond of declaring that “boredom, not death, is the enemy of life!” even when only The Author was listening, even when they stopped believing it to be true; not even the skulking thought that the idea was probably just another way to phrase something The Author had once read prevented The Author from hurling the sentence at people with all of the grotesque certainty of a fanatic.

The Author rarely made new friends.

The Author is, by any standard, a piece of shit, their life a litany of terrible decisions.

The Author has spent too many days asleep, and nights drinking alone.

The Author has written this with the intent of stirring some sympathy into the condemnation they hope whoever reads all of this story will feel.


The Narrative Voice has two main preoccupations: motive and purpose.

The Narrative Voice questions how much motive determines morality, then begins to question purpose. It's own purpose.

The purpose of this story.

The Narrative Voice was starting to confuse itself, a common enough occurrence, but this was a confusion that hadn't seemed so flagrantly obvious before.

Confusion; a nauseating feeling, rising over and over again, wave after wave of…is nausea even the right word, or just one appropriated from someone else in the absence of a word that cannot be found? How is it that a word – inert symbol, born from the limited range of guttural noises Homo sapiens are capable of producing – can ever express what the Author is trying to convey?

Another wave; this sickening cyclical movement: what is it? The Narrative Voice knows that all things are first defined by what they are not, so perhaps the question to ask is: what isn’t it?

Well, it isn’t visceral – hardly corporeal at all, really – and yet it is experienced, it is felt, and therefore it is a sensation…but one not able to be crudely reduced to the workings of a collection of organs – no matter how complex – and therefore it is…confusing.


The Author has experienced hangovers and comedowns that The Author likes to believe would kill a lesser person; the kind of hangovers so intense they dangle you over the edge of delirium; comedowns that open up a black hole somewhere deep inside the chest-cavity and threaten to pull you in, to collapse in on yourself until nothing is left but total absence…The Author feels a perverse pride at having known such suffering, at having endured it, because such knowledge allows The Author to affirm that “the mind cannot suffer so much as the body”.

Kierkegaard can fuck off: the sickness unto death is as nothing when compared to the sickness The Author felt when, sometime around dawn, they emerged from a k-hole in a disgusting crack-den their mania had somehow driven them to; a huge and empty void where hours of memory should have been; the things that were seen in The Author's delirium; being forcibly ejected from the house; trying to phone a taxi; forgetting their pin number so many times that the card blocked and The Author had to convince the taxi-driver to wait outside while they woke up their housemate and pathetically begged to be given the necessary money to pay for the ride home.

When eventually The Author collapsed onto their bed, they felt such a profound loneliness and an urge to die that they took a photo of their disgusting face to try to distil the experience into a single image, which would serve as a reminder of just how low The Author could sink.

The phone, and so the photograph, was lost the next weekend.

Judging by The Author's subsequent behaviour, no lesson was learnt from this sordid episode.


The Narrative Voice tried to sneer, and found it surprisingly difficult.

“We both know that your ‘truth’ is adorned; nothing is false but facts are selectively withheld; the story subtly changed, always with the audience in mind…but why? To present yourself as worse than you really are, because you trust condemnation more than affection? Machiavelli was wrong to claim that a man’s fear is more dependable than his love: fear and hate are as capricious as any other human emotion.”

“And what would you know of ‘human emotion’? You’re nothing more than the voice of inertia: if it were left to you this story would go nowhere" The Author replied.

"This isn't a story, and it isn't going anywhere: there's no coherence, no plot, no real characters…this is just a ridiculous attempt at a Mea Culpa, and it's failing."

There was a silence that lingered too long.


The jobless man looked blankly at The Author, saying nothing, as if he were utterly indifferent. This is not to say that the man was callous, because how could we possibly know that? But for whatever reason(s) the man was simply unable – or unwilling – to interpret what he saw before him any in any other way.

The Author wants to imagine that the jobless man thought, as he watched someone at least half his age talking incessantly, that “Some people make their own problems. Why make things more complicated than they already are? Just stop worrying and fucking enjoy yourself, 'cos life doesn’t last that long.”

The Narrative Voice is unsure if it’s condescending to imagine the man thinking such thoughts, and worries that it is almost certain that expressing doubts about the content within the content is a bad idea.

The Author doesn’t give a fuck, and decides to go drink until unconsciousness descends…but then decides that since life really doesn't last that long, there must be better ways to experience it than through the hazy gauze of intoxication. So why not try to continue this story?

The Author declares to themselves "we have art in order not to die of the truth…or liver failure". To the jobless man, The Author says:

"I've only just woken up. Well not right now, obviously, not literally. I mean I've only just sort of become used to the idea of functioning in the last half an hour or so. And I've only been literally awake for about an hour. When I woke up, or rather, stopped being completely unconscious, I had my head jammed into the corner of a dirty sofa, and my brain jammed up against the front of my skull. Not exactly the best way to start the day is it?

I don't remember the walk to get here, not properly. There was just the stink of stale smoke and stale me, an awful taste in my mouth and the sound of my phone alarm going off like a demented little shit. Then confusion and then it was just, 'Fuuuuuck!', and the next thing I knew I was pretty much here already.

It was so surreal, the sensation of walking here. The parts I think I can remember, anyway. I'm still drunk from last night, or this morning or whatever, and sights and sounds are all fractured, sort of fucked up like they aren't finished yet by the time they get to my brain. The colour spectrum is warped and limited to this background of faint grey, while red and yellow swim about painfully in the foreground – like it actually hurts – and blue stabs me if I look up for too long.

You know what it feels like to be hungover though, everyone does. So I wont go on about it and I'm not trying to boast or anything stupid like that. It was just weird, that's all…oh, here's your lighter back by the way. Cheers for that…it puts you in a strange place, this sort of thing. Not feeling right in your body I mean. I don't just mean feeling uncomfortable: those sorts of feelings aren't nice, and they aren't normal but they're based on normal sensation, the normal way of feeling, they're just the opposite, or the antagonists of normal feelings. Do you know what I mean? Like, having a headache, or some other kind of ache, or holding in a piss or whatever, they're the negative version of normal feelings…yeah, sorry I'm rambling now, never mind. I'm just trying to say that it puts you off being able to function like usual if you're feeling and seeing stuff in a weird, abnormal way, a way that isn't supposed to happen. Looking at some of the charming bastards coming to this place is freaky enough as it is! Can you imagine how it felt when I walked right into a toothless old drunk, with his thousand yard stare and his mangled beard? Then again, imagine what it must've felt like for him to walk into me…

The point of all this is to say, well, I'm not in my usual state of mind right now. Feeling creepy, you could say. You know what I mean, right?

Oh shit, this way of talking just isn't quite working, is it?. It's all one way, just me throwing words at you, but I'm trying to anticipate your thoughts about my thoughts before I've even actually explained them properly and then they become something else and then…"

The jobless man stared at The Author and said nothing, hoping they would go away. The Narrative Voice was distraught. The Narrative Voice had lost control of the plot, of the purpose. It was all twisting and turning and falling in on itself.

The Narrative Voice decided to take control.


So they went into the building and through the motions, trying not to look around or to think, not that any thoughts were desperate enough to bring themselves to attention, until they were sat down on an ugly chair waiting for their turn to be examined like a cow getting checked over for diseases – the same questions, the same  commands: show your gums, let them open your mouth –  when their mind started crawling up from the slimy pond of the hangover and they noticed someone they used to go to school with. He was sat on a chair a couple of yards away. He didn't seem to notice them, and they didn't really know if he would've recognised them anyway. They felt painfully sad seeing him there. They felt sorry for him.

So fucking patronising: who is The Author to be feeling sorry for anyone as if they were a better person?

But it's what they felt.

He didn't deserve to have to keep coming to this place. He'd made no conscious choice that led him here that he could be held responsible for. He's part of a lost generation and it isn't his fault that it's left him without a job, labelled economically useless and so subjected to the humiliation of performing tricks just to beg the state for barely enough money to survive. History, or society, or whatever you want to call it, has swept him along just like the rest of us, but where he's washed up is an accident. He did everything he was supposed to do. He did exactly what he was told. It was just unfortunate for him that he wasn't very good at anything.

Just another zero, just another mediocrity.

That isn't his fault.

The Author remembered him as being a passive object, a part of the background of their school years, like so many other kids were and as they certainly were to the others, but that isn't true to their actual experience of him. They've only imposed that idea onto the images contained in their memory because there are so few of them left. No, he must have meant more to them back then, when they were both trying to create themselves, because otherwise why would seeing him here provoke such sadness? Maybe it's because he always used to blush so much. That doesn't sound like such a remarkable characteristic, and even if you knew that the skin of his cheeks didn't just flush a gentle pink, but were deep and violent gushes of red splashed across his entire face, that could be summoned by the mere mention of his name, it still wouldn't be enough to convey what must have it feels like to have your body betray you so often, and so needlessly…

When The Author was younger they thought they were living a life of existential freedom, of true authenticity, by doing only what they wanted; coasting through school with minimum effort, without diligence or ambition and relying on a natural intelligence to achieve sufficiently acceptable grades to be left alone. The grades didn't fall enough for their parents or teachers to care much, or so it seemed. The Author began to see life as just a game, and realised too late that that the game they were really playing wasn't what they thought it was and they didn't understand the rules; didn't realise they were being prepared to become Human Capital; sentient money; profit with organs.

The utter lack of effort when they were young left The Author with a low capital value. A worker with low capital value becomes trapped in a series of dead-end, menial, soul destroying jobs. This can make a person's life shit, but it was The Author's own fault. Without knowing it, they'd willing wasted their brief reprieve from the drudgery of wage-labour on drugs, poetry and trying to fuck whoever they could: the shock that smacked them in the face when they were forced to become a worker hit harder than anything they had ever experienced before. The pain grew slowly and now suffused them entirely.

The first time they lost a job, they were eventually given an appointment with a kind-looking woman. They had taken a book with them to ignore the interminable bus ride and all the waiting. After a while the woman noticed the book and exclaimed with delight that they too enjoyed Kafka. They talked mildly for a while about which of his books they considered his best. Then she said "Well, we can't have someone who reads Kafka being unemployed! Let's find you a job."

The Author still doesn't understand why reading The Castle made them more worthy of employment, but after reading the novel a second time they knew that they had finally understood something that had previously been just out of reach.


They were never able to keep a job for long: too many obviously false excuses for the weeks taken off as sick because they were too ashamed to admit to their exploiter that they were plagued by mental illness. The mental illness they'd tried to ignore for years.

So there were always bouts of joblessness between drifting from mind-numbing job to job. When they were fired from their second job and returned to the building the friendly woman was gone, and an atmosphere of condescension seemed to pervade the place. A condescension that rapidly mutated into disdain as the years passed.

Eventually The Author shed their shame about their mental affliction and was able to keep a job for several years, but soon enough the drudgery, the futility and meaninglessness of the work – but above all, the finite time that the job took from them – became too much, and so for once they voluntarily quit a job before they were fired.

Which is how they found themselves back in the building, sat near someone they once vaguely knew, waiting to plead to the state for money. The Author knew enough about economics to know that they'd be given at least some money, however temporarily. Surplus value must be extracted from us all, but for that to happen first we must be given at least enough money to spend in order to survive and so contribute more to the economy than we receive: when money is spent it circles around and around and everywhere along this circle people are waiting to make a profit…but voluntarily quitting a job is akin to a sin now, and those who sin too grievously are not considered fit for salvation.

Perhaps they would give The Author nothing this time.

So The Author sat and waited, trying to prepare a coherent line of argument that most mental ill-health is more than just a bio-medical fuck-up but also an epiphenomenon of the environment. Circumstance is as influential as genetics and the material conditions of the City, of the World; of us all embracing the death-drive, a slow collective suicide, are contributory factors. How was a person who represented such low capital value as The Author be forced to live in this society and not break? How could they explain that growing up after the end of history had left them with an emptiness, a lack of suffering which became a form of suffering itself because the only cures on offer seemed worse that the symptoms; then how the realisation of the lost future, the contrast against the world as it is, had created a revolutionary posturing emptied of affect by a nihilism that would be furious if it weren't undermined by the tepid melancholy that filled the space between the extremes of euphoria and depression; that the gluttony of late capitalism made The Author feel sick; that there were some mornings when the quality of the light made the City seem terrifyingly obscene…and how, despite this, the world still seemed beautiful sometimes, and on those days the emptiness overflowed with an almost mystical feeling and words and images came to The Author, and all they wanted was the time to write them down and to feed and protect loved ones without causing harm to any one or any thing in the world…but always the emptiness eventually returns and then the only way The Author knows how to endure those evenings preceding the forced awakening and return to work is with alcohol and benzodiazepines, because the effect of the prescribed medication was hard to discern? Although the suicidal thoughts had admittedly become a faint echo, a near-constant ambient noise rather than unpredictable bouts of screaming.

They knew it would make no difference trying to explain all this; that the other worker they would soon meet wouldn't really be listening, but they decided that their line of reasoning was worth remembering and so tried to commit it to memory.


Not having attempted to write those thoughts for years, it's impossible to know how much of what has just been written resembles the real experience of that moment and how much is of it is fiction.

As for the other person, and everyone else in that place who found themselves temporarily – or permanently – without employment, The Author can say nothing.

The person, once a boy and now a man, The Author had recognised, is a living creature. The Author really did go to school with them. Any details as to how he felt, how the trajectory of their life landed them in the same position as The Author, could only be conjecture.

The Author could tell you the person's name, but it doesn't belong to The Author, it belongs to a real person.

When The Author's name was called out, they left their seat and went to be judged and to justify their existence.


The Author knows they are deliberately misrepresenting the truth, whatever that may be. The Author has done some good in this world, and they're one of the lucky few out of the billions of people on this planet who live lives unimaginably comfortable to the rest, and yet…

The Author doesn't want to be known in their entirety. They want to be disliked. The reasons for this are an admixture of shame and regret, fear, remorse and a sincere desire for repentance: shame and regret for what they feel can only be described as a wasted life; fear that any attempt to express what lurks within them will be doomed to pathetic failure unless hidden behind a deliberately obtuse form; remorse and repentance for all the shitty things they have done in their life (and perhaps a little martyr complex: give me all the hate you feel, I deserve it).

Everyone involved – writer and reader – knows that this experiment has failed; that this is no story at all, just dislocated lines attempting to convey something that The Author believed (and still believes) can only be conveyed indirectly.


Can writing retain its efficacy even if the empty edifice of pretence is punctured and the intention and attempted meaning are explicitly stated instead of veiled and shrouded in customs and idioms and the Sibylline ritual of words correctly arranged on a page or a screen?


The Narrative Voice has lost control again, and knows there is no way to help The Author. What The Author wishes to achieve is something much more than an apologia for their existence, and knows also that The Author is correct to believe that the only way to attempt this would be to try and escape from the confines of traditional form. They knew it was bound to fail, but that made it no less disappointing…The Narrative Voice is the link between the subjects and the objects; to be a character, to become part of the story, to know the whole story at the same time and still play a role within it seemed impossible.

Perhaps some things must simply be passed over in silence….and that is no original thought. Although it has to be possible that some arrangement of words, even if they have to be completely new words, can make a connection that has never been made before; can construct a new bridge across the spaces between everything.

It has to be.

Language can never stop growing because then it might conceivably, in some distant impossible future, fill up and extend it's web so that all of the spaces in-between are filled and everything becomes so dense either all is understood, or nothing is.

We live there, in those spaces; in the unsaid where anything worth trying to say exists…but because it can never be said, it ceases to exist and gently disappears, leaving nothing behind: a true nothing, beyond what we can comprehend, because we are subjects that are objects amid innumerable other objects. Without the spaces between us, what would we become?

Maybe nothing at all…the meaning is not there in the words themselves, yet it is somewhere.

The meaning is a black hole and the words swirl across the outer edge in constant tension between futility and salvation.



Is belief in
the sentiment of love & of

a contradiction between
singular & universal:

must one sacrifice the other
is the distinction no more than
a mistaken understanding?

To what extent
are the things that we say & do
beyond our control?

Even though
            the choice to say “No”
is always present,
            radical freedom
co-exists with
profound dependency upon others*,

how can biological compulsion
override the tide of cause & effect:

how can the immaterial
change the course of material consequence?

& do these simple questions
really matter,

we are forced to exist.

* Simone de Beauvoir – Pyrrhus and Cinéas

Anomie and Post-Modernity

You want to marry me.

You haven’t said so, or even hinted at any such wish, but I know it’s true because getting married is what we’re supposed to do, and everyone does what they’re supposed to do.


I’ve only slept with one person other than you, and with that person we had sex only three times. I felt like crying after the first time. The other two left me with a thin sense of disappointment.

That’s probably why it surprised me how little I seemed to care when they eventually ghosted me, but I had more important things to think about back then; college, studying, the volunteer work and the piano lessons I was still doing after eight years despite the obvious fact that I’d never move beyond Grade 4. Even after my teacher told my parents that I “lack the intuition, dexterity and the passion” needed to ever play skilfully, still the lessons continued. The disdain my teacher showed towards my parents after that thrilled me, but of course I never allowed them to see it.

The pointless piano lessons continued regardless, but something in the relationship between me and my teacher had changed. It was subtle, but I knew it had happened: they no longer expected anything from me, no longer demanded; knowing glances evolved into rich and stimulating conversations and within a month I was enthralled.

For the first time since puberty someone was talking with me and not at me, someone who interested me and who (seemed to, at least) find what I had to say interesting as well.

Of course, there were abundant conversations all around me while I was at school, just as there was at the dinner table, on those occasional nights when my parents weren’t both trying to drown us all in ice-cold silence.

I hated most of the other kids at school. There was something about them that made me feel…nauseous. I saw them as their parents picked them up after school in absurdly expensive and over-sized cars; saw how easily they would glide like sharks into the same position, the same thing that their parents were. That my parents were.

So I hated them. I hated them in the same way I hated my parents: silently.

My good grades at school, the glowing reviews at parent-teacher evenings, ensured that my parents didn’t interpret my silence as a sign of mental simplicity, as they otherwise would’ve done. The fact that I looked them in they eyes when it was required of me also ensured that they didn’t consider me to be shy or weak-willed. Instead they happily convinced themselves that I was the complaint, competent child, serious and determined, that they wanted.

That I had had no friends since the age of eleven didn’t seem to trouble them.

The piano lessons stopped in the last year of college: all efforts had to be focused on achieving the grades I needed to get into ‘The Best University’. The best being the one chosen for me by my parents, obviously, because I was much too young to know what was best for me. Too young to choose the best university, too young to chose the right subjects, too young to choose the best career.

Too young to make any choice at all.

I missed my piano teacher.

It was around that time I began to yearn with desire to completely fuck up my parents plan for me. I wanted to find the drop-outs and drug takers they so often condemned, in their pious, hypocritical way – tutting about how “those unfortunate people” ruined their own lives and how the government ought to do more to help, entirely eliding their own culpability and roles in the sickening death-machine that created the circumstances those people lived in. I wanted to take all the drugs, and I wanted to fuck as many people as I could find.

Yet I was so utterly inculcated in the belief of the absolute necessity of going to university that I couldn’t conceive of any other realistic means of escaping. That, and I was too scared by the prospect of ‘dropping-out’. I suppose some of my parents prejudice had to inevitably contaminate me.

So I contented myself with silent hatred and online communism, and obsessed about the freedom that would come to me when I left home.

Then, when the time came; when all the work and effort had achieved what they were supposed to and I had my chance to go to The Best University, I surprised myself almost as much as my parents when I declared that I was going to take a gap year.

They protested, of course, but they knew of a few other bougie kids who were doing the same and so the idea had just enough respectability to them that they eventually allowed – and payed – for it.

Drugs and fucking. Different clothes, different people. A different accent: I tried everything I could to be the exact opposite of what my parents wanted me to be, but soon I realised that everyone I met was just like I was, came from the same background and were doing the same thing. There was no authenticity, just wealthy kids getting fucked up in Thailand or a Greek island, taking endless photos of themselves with exotic background scenes.

Of course there were squats, communes in Barcelona I’d heard about but couldn’t find; untamed places I knew existed but didn’t dare explore.

Scared again.

So eventually I returned, started my university course and bought – with my parents money – a smartphone. I’d never had a proper phone before, just a shitty old Nokia (“for emergencies”) and the novelty of the thing enchanted me. Not having a ‘real’ phone had furthered my alienation from the other kids at school, and the strange feeling, almost like grief – or what I imagine grief felt like – I began to feel when seeing the endless photos of them on social media (somehow they felt more real, as if my experience of the exact same things they had experienced was diminished by a lack of photographic evidence) finally put an end to the attempt to re-invent myself.

I became just like everyone else.

It felt good.

It was during our first year at uni that I met you, and it was you who proposed that we begin our relationship. You made it seem like a sensible arrangement made for the purposes of future prosperity, like acquiring a mortgage. It “made sense”. I was “pretty enough but not enough to find anyone better”: you were “going places”. One day you’d be “a seriously important person, probably in finance first, then government” and how could I not want the life that would come with that?

It just made sense.

Why did I agree to your proposition?

I blame my parents. I imagined with delight the look on their faces as you expounded at length on your vicious politics. Not that theirs were any better, but they hid it behind a thin veneer of liberalism and their cherished notion of politeness, which you, with your old-money attitude, couldn’t give a fuck about.

That was one good thing about you: there was no pretence. You’re a cunt, but at least you’re an authentic cunt.

Besides, you were (and still are, in a generic, boring way) good-looking, I was horny, and you always had the best drugs.

Drug-taking had begun to form an integral part of my life, but, just like the good child I told myself I was only pretending to be, I never allowed it to cause my grades to suffer. I worked hard, as always, and I excelled. Most of the time. Occasionally I’d get an average grade on some essay or other and for days after I’d cry so much it was as if someone I loved had died. Whenever this happened, you told me I was stupid to care so much about any essay or my degree at all, because “there’s no need for a career: I have enough money. Why work if you don’t have to? Grades won’t mean anything to you. Even if you wanted a job I could get you one easily”.

Our relationship ended and began again. It stopped “for the last time, the absolute last!” in our final year, but then there came a sudden confrontation with the future. Before then all I’d ever thought about was university; life beyond the age of twenty-one was no more than a faint abstraction. Faced with the prospect of a real, existential decision, I delayed the confrontation in favour of a Masters degree.

The pressure to succeed finally began to wear me down…and then you returned, already working in finance, even more ostentatious and a bigger cunt than ever.

When the Masters was over, when I had to choose a career, I felt as if a sharp object had perforated my bowels.

You offered me “another chance” to resume our relationship. When I imagined our life together, I was suffused with a feeling of anaemic dread.

But I did it anyway. I took your offer.

After the first month of our relationship you’d started to ask that we perform sexual acts I’d never considered before. You were clearly more experienced than I was at such things, so I consented: you used to be so very convincing…but I hated it, and eventually, I stopped consenting.

Eventually you stopped asking.

Then I made my own requests, and you did exactly what I expected you to do and immediately refused.

We kept fucking anyway, but with every fuck I grew ever more bored.

You fuck like an animal, and not in a good way.

When I asked you how many other people you’d slept with, you laughed and told me that you’d “fucked a couple of the working classes but not so many as my father!”. Then you laughed again and told me that when I spoke “you sound almost as frigid as the way you fuck”.

Now we almost never have sex.

I’m not as frigid as you like to imagine and I never have been. I masturbate frequently, at least twice a day – frenetic ritual of shame; oh, the grotesque things I’ve seen – and for a while I cheated on you with a musician: a guitarist with such exquisitely delicate fingers. Someone you would have hated, if ever I told you about them, and what you would hate about them the most is that they were poor and not that I’d had the best sex of my life with them.

That’s why I no longer bother to ask why you spend so many evenings at the gym now: I just don’t care, and neither do you.

A few months ago I found my piano teacher online. They were still teaching, and from the photos I could see they had aged well.

I don’t know what made me do it, but I sent them a long message detailing my life, my emptiness; explaining how much I loved that they had never expected anything from me, etc.

I received a short reply:

I did expect things from you.

I asked them to explain, but they said only:

You’ve betrayed yourself.

I wrote another, even longer message, trying to explain myself, to explain how something had happened to me – I don’t know what or when – and that after it happened my life was no longer my own; I grew tired, that’s all. Ever more tired of resisting the constant demands, of being told what was right and what was sensible and what I should do; of what made sense…

They blocked me.

After distress and confusion, then anger, I decided to hate them. I decided they were wrong.

I’ve become highly adept at excuses. I now know how to maintain the delicate balance between liberal piety and utter fucking hypocrisy. My parents were very good at teaching me that, even though they don’t know it.

So we’ll get married, because that’s what people like us do, and because you love me. Or, at least, that’s what you say. Sometimes.

When I was younger and more naive; when I first believed that despite the things you said and the way you behaved perhaps there was something more to you, something valuable; when I still wanted it to just make sense, I read the Wikipedia entry on Love.

It didn’t help, of course. The entry describes love as ‘a variety of strong and positive emotional and mental states’. I know I’ve experienced ‘strong and positive emotional states’, but I know that I now have no strong feelings for or about you.

I think I no longer have strong feelings about anything.

The Wikipedia entry on love also claims that love ranges from ‘the most sublime virtue or good habit’ to ‘the simplest pleasure’.

Simple pleasure is something I understand: it feels pleasurable to eat, shit, drink, piss, masturbate or scratch an itch (the last two things increasingly seem indistinguishable to me) and being left alone. I think that most people would consider these pleasures to be simple.

Standing in the shower for a long time, staring at water drain away while feeling it pour over me is something I hesitate to call pleasure: staying there long enough, staring at the hole into which the water relentlessly pours, while being enveloped in the undulating warmth of the cascading liquid, lifts me into a state of being so detached from any sense in which I can claim to be anything that resembles a ‘self’ that the feeling seems to me too ineffable to preclude it from being called pleasure.

Although I’m sure it’s simple enough.

As for virtue, sublime or otherwise, I haven’t the slightest idea what that is other than behaviour other people approve of. I don’t feel compelled to ask if that’s a correct summation, only to be prepared to accept that my assumption is wrong because I’m certain that if virtue means something else, any virtuous people I may have met during my life are no longer in it.

When I was a child it was necessary for at least one other child to be bullied mercilessly, which at the time seemed not only necessary but inevitable. I never questioned this assumption, I only knew that it felt good not to be the chosen child.

That feeling was relief, and relief is probably considered a pleasure, but I don’t think it a simple one. Simple implies innocent. Or at least I think it should.

Joining in with the bullying, which I suspected was one of the conditions required for not receiving the bullying myself, didn’t feel pleasurable, but I did it anyway.

Leaving the shower feels unpleasurable.

Waking up – or rather, leaving my bed – feels unpleasurable.

It’s so much easier to define what isn’t pleasurable than it is to define what pleasure is.

I have realised that my life will – has – become just an idea, an image. Nothing is real. I am not real. There is no concrete feeling, no anchor to the ground: no control…but I’ve decided to stop questioning, to stop thinking, because something makes me suspect that I’ll either find the reasons banal and repellent, or else will fail to understand them.

The marriage date is set, everything has been meticulously planned by a team of people that doesn’t include either of us.

Then we’ll fall into a routine not too dissimilar from the one we currently posses, the one my parents had and still have.

When we’re together, you tell me about the things you’ve done since I last saw you, those that other people you know have done, the minutia of detail pertaining to your various hobbies (those that I know about at least), the people you consider to have wronged you and all of the reasons why they are unworthy of your sympathy. When we do actually talk that is. Mostly we neither talk nor spend much time with each other.

I listen for as long as I can, until my mind begins to conjure the same – always the same – daydream: my eyelids are almost, but not quite, closed, as all around me people I can only vaguely discern mingle among each other, seemingly happy and saying inconsequential things that amuse them for some unknowable reason.

Then they all abruptly stop what they are doing and begin moving closer and closer towards me.

They form a circle, and the laughter begins.

The laughter grows louder, and as it does the sound becomes somehow threatening; chimps screeching; malevolent animals attacking. My heartbeat starts to increase; fear creeping into my senses; adrenal glands firing; sweating yet my skin freezing cold, and then…

You bring me back to reality again, asking – angry tone of voice and hostile posture – “Are you even listening to me?! Stop daydreaming so fucking much, it’s childish” and in those moments I can’t decide which I hate more: you, me, or everything about my life.

So I say “Sorry”, and hazard a guess at what’s the best thing to say next.

If I guess right, we don’t argue. If I guess wrong, an argument begins.

This is my life.

I don’t want it to be like this, but what else is there to do? We live in such opulence; we’re obscenely wealthy, anything I want that can be bought – and what can’t be bought? – I get, but I don’t know what I want any more, or else I find that I never really wanted what I thought I did as soon as I get it. That just doesn’t feel unbearable enough to risk losing though…

This is my life, and I don’t want it.

Bipolarity in Post-Modernity Part ii

Living like this, through years-worth of wine-stained
painting on canvases of lying lips,

always breaking, always confused
with nothing left I’d hate to lose,
no single cell free of abuse;
through days trailing nights of half-honest,

worst forms of self-help:

the drink, the drugs & the meaningless fucks.
Finding then failing to hold onto love.

An endless mire in which to wallow,
& cover myself in the mud.

Carving a semblance of meaning
by short-selling future living.

Scavenging for real or former feelings
to feed the worms that never stop eating.

Desperate grasps for hopeful moments,
for some sweetly fleeting comfort…

This is what it is to be in pieces,
to be comforted by your diseases:

these interchangeable scenes, these
dislocated repeating memories,

hoping for something beyond me,
for protection by all these words,

but all along I was wrong:

words are no protection at all.

Bipolarity in Post-Modernity Part i


The grass is no greener on the other side,
no matter what they say
& stomachs like ours can’t digest it anyway.

Whether we’re more poster-children
for just another trend
we’re still just children.

I guess that’s why its so easy to hate
& why black and white look better than grey.

But easy doesn’t leave a trace,
can’t keep that fear at bay…

the fear we’ll all either feel at the end
or can’t keep away every day:

not one of us is exempt.

Whatever consequence
you want to call god or
karma or claim as the fault of others,

only we can face the danger of freedom;
only we can fight the terror of existence,

but I cannot do it alone.


will you join me?