– Baleful Basilisk
No one should read this. At least not if you have a sense of purpose. If you must though, (assuming you are just as pointless as I am) then do.
It’s been quite some time. Dull drudgery, nothing to write about. Wheels turning, life moving forward and me swatting flies. One part of me that is. The other takes care of the pedals, mechanically and precisely. Not an effing detail out of place. Nothing overdone either, since there is no way I love this bicycle. It rolls and I jump on and off and drag myself in the torture machine. A bare line of masochism has started evolving by now and I can’t be brought to care about it.
I wish I still had my roller blades. But I outgrew them and well, life moved on. I miss them. Terribly. They were my first love, and if I did have a learning phase before I was comfortable, I don’t remember it. Funny how many things turned out to be just like my roller blades. Fun while they lasted, eventually misfit and broken, discarded by force into some corner.
I am sitting in this perfect room in a perfect place. And all I can think about is flies. That pisses me off. It must take some strong natural instinct for flies to be so eager. I sit there and do nothing, trouble no one. And they come buzzing in. Seems like hiding behind an open, curtained window isn’t safe enough. Some are like bees, coming to sting me with anger. Leaving behind poison that takes years to drain out. Years of sitting behind curtains. Others are harmless and uninteresting, flying aimlessly, now on my head, in a while sitting on a rotting orange or a dead animal. No distinction. I think it’s time I buy a good swatter. Or clean up.
Except swatting them away would prick my conscience and cleaning this mess is pointless. It’s one of those things which never end. I try to keep it in a tolerable condition, but then it takes just one moment of chaos to roll all the gears right back to where I started from.
The other day, I was trying to find my roller blades. Can’t remember where I kept them last. Or my sanity. Or anything, for that matter. My room is clean and organised, though. It takes an effing ridiculous amount of lost stability to just sit here and write like this. Emotions dribbling down indiscreetly from a machine which has always been loaded beyond capacity. Fucking ridiculous of me to even be doing this.
But I still need things. Like breathing. It happens sometimes, only it feels more like choking. Three years and counting of not breathing. That’s hyperbole of gross proportions, of course. What did you expect in a piece titled melodrama? I’d absolutely love it if I discovered the problem was with my lungs. I would rather believe I had a physical disease than accept that I was sniffing soot. Consistency is for fools, apparently, and I am definitely one.
Then, the volcano I live under. Not in the perfect place. In my permanent abode. Recently classified extinct, hopefully? Survival instincts can kick in when nothing else will. You don’t know it until you do. If you know what’s best for others, however, you don’t keep pets or invite guests. Not that it really matters anymore. I adapted and shrivelled up. The need doesn’t exist anymore. This is vomit. Clearing up my system, building it up to efficiency. No more soot. All gone.
The journey was so much better than its conclusion, right. As if you climbed a dangerous and beautiful mountain, feeling waves of purple and red bursting with warmth in your mind, to find out the peak was just a dirty place the locals use as a trashcan. I can’t believe I battled against all my instincts and experience for this idiocy. Now, I just laugh. Grow the absurdity in a field and set it on fire. You can spend your life trying to break down a wall or just light a cigarette and fade away with a smile. I am not sure if there’s a difference between the two. My choice, made with a witless, smart whiff.