“It’s like an appropriation of the aphoristic/philosophical style of writing of two centuries ago. The words are empty, but there’s something else, something poetic that comes through with his use of imagery.”—
Health is measured by appearance. I am not well. My face feels bruised. Does this constitute meaning? Is this an excuse for my being - this anti-wellbeing? My toes stick out from rotten plimsoles. Where did this feeling come from? I will need a new pair of socks to make me feel better, and let us continue this decadence - a fresh packet of cigarettes. (I’ve never liked anything half opened/half used.) Sharing a packet of cigarettes is like sharing a girl, taking it in turns to feel inside, pulling out your selection, lighting up, laying back. Pride is a disease. I can’t share things like that. I might as well choke on discarded goods, or stick my tongue inside a stagnant canal.
Fortune has blessed me. I find it amusing that things can grow from something small and helpless into something pretty and usable. There is no irony intended when I exclaim ‘Gosh, how you’ve grown!’ into my conquest’s ear. There is no one easier to fool than the man who does not expect to be fooled, except perhaps for the gentler sex. A few words can go a very long way. A hand can contain hidden excitements, like the smile that hides the true intentions of its master. The facet may shine, but it says nothing of brilliance, that is why virginity is hopeless - it has the worst odour of all, and attracts those with the most sensitive nose.
We are all the same person. There is never any death, but a continuation of life, we are an unfunny mass tied together with elastic string, bits might fall away, but the whole thing is continuously renewed. The only death is found in extinction and/or clowns.
At around the close of office hours, she took herself to the park to feed the pigeons and the ducks. She wondered if ducks were nocturnal feeders, but she often saw them during the day. She knew that a paradox of this manner could exist, but she also knew that she could make up words. She understood that Man was barely more than an animal. She understood that Man had somehow had the unfortunate capacity to civilise himself. She did not know the History of Man, or indeed if History could exist in a tangible form. All trials were absurd. She knew that she must not use the phone (I must not even lift it from the receiver), she knew that it did not matter to anyone if she had a headache. (I must never contact my husband during the day.) She was fortunate to have a husband. She did not tell anyone about his premature ejaculation or where it was he would ejaculate, or that he would pick up girls too young to get inside nightclubs. She always knew that there would be a tomorrow. She had seen the 40 milligram packaging more often than she could remember. She knew that everything was her fault.
“Women are suited to being the nurses and teachers of our earliest childhood precisely because they themselves are childish, silly and short-sighted, in a word, big children their whole lives long.”—Arthur Schopenhauer On Women
It has been sixteen months since I last stepped outside. I do not know what I miss the most - I do not know if I have the capacity to miss anything. When everything has been taken away from your reach, there is at first, a moment of intense relaxation. I had not expected this, but then of course it was something that could not last. I became panicked - I don’t believe I had ever experienced panic before. My thoughts raced through encounters. I recollected my sins. I had an overwhelming desire to show myself to the nurses, a complete shaming desire. I would redden in their presence. I could not control my urges. My medication was altered. I had consultation after consultation with men. Always men. I did not see a woman for nearly two months. I complained that it was a basic human right for a man to see a woman, but my complaints disappeared. My medication makes me sleepy. I no longer have desires. They allow me one book a week. I cannot read a single word. Words do not contain meanings for me. I have asked for help - for days I have asked for help. I try to skip my mealtime medication. They now inject me once every three months. I am no longer of a stable mind, but they tell me that my medication is to keep me of a stable mind. I can tell you when it is Thursday, every Thursday.
Last week, one of the patients passed away.
A male nurse helps to wash my body. They do not allow me to be washed by female nurses. I think the male nurse is homosexual, but I cannot tell. He does not try to touch me, but I have oftentimes caught him looking at me in disgust. I have urges when I see the male nurse, but I think they are a repressed hatred of all mankind or some kind of homophobia that I am unaware of. I no longer have my freedom. I can see the true condition: Futility. Boredom. It is better to repent your sins whilst you still have your freedom. I can only read picture books now. I have a book on St. Anthony that I renew once a week. Nobody else wants to look at pictures of St. Anthony. Everybody else wants to read The Catcher in the Rye, or The Bell Jar, but these books only contain words and nothing else. The only book of words worth reading is the Bible itself.
I have to be supervised when I am writing letters. I have nobody to write letters to, but I have complained that it is a basic human right to be able to write a letter, even if that letter is to remain unposted. This does not explain why I have to be supervised when I write letters - I drew pictures of St. Anthony upon the walls in biro when I was supposed to be writing my first letter. My medication was altered and now my hands feel lifeless. Sometimes a male nurse has to feed me. I have dreams of choking to death upon a cupful of semen, but I do not tell anybody this. I wake up coughing and trembling. I think I have a complex, but I no longer recall what the word means. Or its relevance. Everything has become sliced, and I am living out my existence one slice at a time and I hope it kills me.
Will abandoned, Passed out between fresh sheets, and I lifted up her shirt. Stopped. Book of poetry. Bedside table. Book of poetry; The Pain of Plants. She moved her hand across the bed, flattened it, looked at me. Closed her eyes. Looked at me. Closed her eyes. I pushed her shirt higher.
“In our early youth we sit before the life that lies ahead of us like children sitting before the curtain in a theatre, in a happy and tense anticipation of whatever is going to appear. Luckily we do not know what will really appear.”—Arthur Schopenhauer On the Suffering of the World