The last few weeks have presented themselves with a plethora of ups and downs. My main concern is how slow the writing has been. Flaccid dribs and drabs of essay attempts and prose followed by a constant sense of frustration. These pellets of ideas that merely required a little tender nurturing would cease at precisely 4pm in the afternoon. It was times like these when Sartre and Lynch would fuel that hunger.

Evidently, not this time.

The world feels cruel and it often seems like we are powerless to it. The never-ending uphill road with the building anticipation of an accelerated decline – windswept and refreshed. Except it never comes. Perhaps tomorrow.

I had an idea of death. It came to me upon a walk – a momentary flash of a leaf withering on a branch. The last few skeletal veins sucking at the air around it, a last attempt at life. But the leaf will bloom again and if this is what death is, have we the need to be afraid? For surely it’s a cycle. Right?

I am confused. The days grow longer and the ideas grow shorter. I want to kill all my characters – I want them to depart in the most excruciating of manners. Genitals haphazardly ripped from bodies, eyes gouged with rusty implements, grotesque disembowelments splattering upon pavements. And I recall my primary school teacher describing me as a ‘kind and gentle soul’ to my drunk mother. Perhaps she was tempting fate but I was only seven years old.

I wander more than I used to. Any excuse to escape the mundane nature of committing to the routine of waking up and going to sleep. Mainly because I want to dissect my dreams. I want to know their true meaning – sometimes I consider them to be past lives. The way they return to me like loving kisses to my feverish forehead.

I’ve been analysing everything lately. Deciphering meaning in the smallest of observations. The breakfast news, the old man who lives down the street who instinctively tips his hat to me each and every morning, the way the light streams through the curtains – so precise. I can’t help but feel like someone or something is attempting to deliver a message to me.


Author: Drew Forest

Independent author and copywriter

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