They’ve given me something. They said it’s a drink to ease the pain. What’s most disturbing is that I drank it without even so much as a hesitation, yet it really helped to ease the pain, not just my physical pain. My ribs, my head and hands are in obvious need of numbing, but then, so is my head, my emotions need to be put on hold. Whatever this is, it’s made me feel tipsy, even amongst the numbness. That’s when I articulate myself best, when I become most reflective. I suppose what I write will just be words on a page, thoughts, in my subconscious, a scheme I’m blissfully unaware of. That’s okay though, I’ll still articulate myself, and who gives a shit if anybody understands, my thoughts are certainly open to interpretation, I don’t mind in the slightest. My journal, I cherish it dearly, despite it being a decrepit old thing with undecipherable drivel written and drawn all over it. But, again, what does that matter anyway? What’s here is real, my journal, and therefore my thoughts. What’s on that page before me is equally real, and that’s what really matters:
Flow. A slow and steady movement, remnants of onomatopoeia if you say it like a swoosh. It’s good like that, intricate descriptions can be extremely telling. You’re flowing in a direction, you’re on a journey. Who am I to say what flows, everything flows, the wine you sip flows from the pit of the glass, to the pit of your stomach; you don’t even think about it, the greed, the incessant feeling what you’re doing is wrong, but it feels so fucking good. So why stop? Well, because it’s the ‘right’ thing to do I suppose; something which is taking me a while to find out. Yes, a while is an understatement. It feels like an eternity. I would suggest therefore, that it’s a process of perpetual motion, a fleeting glance of a drunken you which is far more honest and ironically reliable. How is that, a drunken, almost incomplete and ill-functioning individual is more coherent and able to tell the truth, able to relay ideas which are forthcoming in vital introspection. That shouldn’t even be the case. Right, fuck. This is the most coherent I’ve ever been. Not knowing where I’m going has given me some clarity, some much needed grounded and realism. My thoughts are happening before me like it isn’t me, and that’s what’s most worrying. I’m sitting on a train which only goes in one direction, forwards. Yet, the air around the train flows over it, it’s curvaceous frontage pushes the wind out of the way, as it continues towards its end, it’s final stop. Anyway.
A spiral, just imagine it right now, in glorious depth and detail. It’s a clockwise purple swirl, slowly enclosing on itself as it rotates downwards. Now, imagine that’s a personality; an intricate, detailed and complex personality; rich of emotion, understanding and experience. Oh my gosh it’s good to write drunk, it flows. The spiral starts off as being open (open-minded, full of awe, wonder and imagination). As time continues, we develop into cynical, self-interested beings who want to look after themselves. The spiral starts to close in on itself, we become more suspicious, less forgiving and less friendly. What really matters at this point is ourselves. For me especially, all that matters is me. I suppose others have mattered, my own mother for one, but she’s long gone. The end of this spiral depicts my truest self. Just as the end of this journey depicts the end of my introspection.
So you’re changed by your movements, you’re an inwards flowing spiral. You’re scared because you know everybody is out to get you, so you enclose on what you know. This is not a negative phenomenon you must understand, but a natural and normal process which must happen in order to know truth, to know ourselves. And ultimately, you eventually find yourself, become who you are, but that’s not always who you wish to be, but you’re moulded out of experience. I know I certainly have been. I’ve killed. I’ve fucked. I’ve left. I’ve destroyed. It’s left me curious, it’s left me drunk, but it hasn’t left me unhappy. I’ve not enjoyed this journey, reflecting on the past, but it has to be done once in a while. You can close one chapter once you’ve fully left it behind. People get on at each station, just as others also get off. This is interaction, you gain and you lose, but ultimately it’s just you, flowing as one, as yourself. Finally to end up somewhere you weren’t expecting, but something made out of yourself. You’ve moved down your spiral, you’ve encircled yourself, and everything remains closed.
And so it begins.