Symptomatic of something else

I fold the blade back, and squeeze the instrument in my fist. My finger tips fizz with ecstasy. Done
with it I drop the razor; it bounces before settling on the ground by my feet. I had no intention of
cutting so long and deep into her flesh. All the same, I bring her porcelain wrist up to my lips, the
moment untainted.
Savouring the subtle nuances of her fear and her scent in this emotionally elevated state, I gaze
longingly at the pearl shaped droplets beading off of her arm; and I’m mystified by the way her blood
seemed to repel light.
Her body warmed by sex and alcohol now shivered in my grasp. Her taste – divine, thicker, richer, and
sweeter than expected.
“You will be the death of me ‘darkling”, I crow before pressing my tongue into what will be a scar, the
remnant of an evening to remember.
“How so”? She retorts with all the cunning and sensuality of a goddess.
I pause, look up into her eyes, and start in humbled sincerity.
“I know I’ll need this elixir again, and again, and again”!
The confession pains me, I’m addicted!
I imbibe hungrily and forcefully in spite of her flinching. Throwing her head back in the throes of
agony and pleasure she emits a tremendous moan which echoes around the room and then…
…I hear my name and my eyes open.
“Dreaming darling”?
“Thank God for dreams”, I mutter to myself.
I sink back into my seat having jolted myself from comfort on hearing my name. I circle my ankles,
my wrists, and stretch in an attempt to shake off the fatigue.
Am I living vicariously through my dreams, or are my dreams the dangerous projections of the
repression that will eventually fell me?
I can’t have her, keep her, or even fuck her, and so I dream of drinking her; In – dreams.
Pre-empting the events of tomorrow has wearied us, and that’s before factioning in the preparation.
An understatement could appear hyperbolised in such events, one being that our mental and
physical reservoirs had been completely drained. Fucked and cannibalised would make for less
equivocal wording.
For me the biggest deal is a combination of agitations borne out of the need to communicate. One
being the faces I have to see, the falsifying of affection and compatriotism, contrived congeniality
and two, the bottling of contempt and boredom. Positive note, there will be alcohol, and at least one
‘reveller’ smart enough to be armed with narcotics.

I can see the life draining from her too, her deciduous youthfulness and cherubim cuteness enough
to deceive most, but her pallor ceased to glow and that was her tell. Sat cradling a banana milkshake
she stared placidly at the paused screen, patiently waiting for tomorrow to be other. The milkshake
was her own concoction, a recipe she wiped up to comfort herself and remind her of when she made
them as a girl with her grandfather.
As such, I head to the kitchen to grab myself a little something to settle my demons.
“Would you like anything from the kitchen dearest”?
She looks up at me wearing a brave smile. I return the soft gaze, and lean over to give her a kiss. I
caress her forehead and remove the hair from her brow. I don’t linger long enough to express my
silent empathy without inviting the tears I could tell she was holding back.
“I had the last of the crisps earlier…” she bemoans with a carefree jaunt in her voice after clearing her
throat.
“…So unless you have a hidden pack and can whip up some chive dip from scratch, then just bring
yourself”.
“Easier said than done”, I say flicking the lamp on.
My inflection suggestive of jest, but inside, deep down I wasn’t sure.
Was I going to return with a drink? Or would my mind venture further than the kitchen, lock itself in
the bathroom in a paradoxical petulant act of seeking solitude and attention. Sulking there until I
considered it, babied it and took action to relieve it.
A dream is not just a dream, I think aloud whilst pouring myself a glass of whiskey. I feel myself
descending into a trance as I watch the 15 year deep amber oak tanned liquid amend the colour of
the glass and shadow it was casting.
The whiskey splashes back from the base of the shallow tumbler. I lose track of my train and thought
and sink into the insignificance of the spillage.
I won’t miss it, the glass would seem no fuller with it, no lighter without it, my journey into the lucid
clutches of the great masseuse inebriation will be unaffected by the insignificance of the lost quota;
And yet, I have to wipe it, I can’t leave it there.
For all the gravitas of reality, this insignificance excites agitation in me. Furthermore this is not merely
a subjective neurosis, this is objective, she wouldn’t tolerate it either, should I neglect to eradicate
the existence of this ‘insignificance’ an aggressive accosting and procession of questioning would
follow from the lips of that gentle creature next door.
This irrevocably shatters the notion of its insignificance. Significance is considered as dependent on
how large a shadow the obstacle casts, and threat regarded where the shadow cast is larger than our
own. Well, this spill for all intents and purposes, possesses metamorphic qualities.
“You coming honey”? She calls no sooner had she come to mind.
Again, thrown from my train of thought, but this time it comes as a relief.

I down the contents of my glass, take a sharp intake of breathe and fill the glass up gently, recalling
my days a badminton player; ‘All in the wrist’ and ‘accuracy over force’.
These pointless phrases that dance through my memory into inexplicable significance at the behest
of the loosest connection.
“You can brain wash a man by repeating anything, no matter how ludicrous”, I offer as I head back to
my seat (the one most central and best placed amongst the speakers).
“I’m sure I could”. She chuckles.
“Are you familiar with the notion of ‘frame work of meaning’”? I ask.
“In what context”, she replies.
“Doesn’t matter” I say, my words trailing off into a mumble. “I’m talking to myself, something,
arbitrary, phenomenology…”
I set a bowl of dry roasted peanuts I have no recollection of obtaining down by the remote control.
Switching off the lamp I feel myself slip into a receptive state conducive to cinematic imbibement. My
shoulders unknot; I feel my pulse throb in my right arm.
“Cheers honey”. I say raising my glass.
“Cheers sweetie”. She retorts.
I watch for a moment as she rests her head back against the sofa, before switching off completely.
Post.
“Beautiful” I sigh, “Maddeningly astute…”- “and audacious” I hark at its conclusion.
“Psychologically surgical, wouldn’t you agree”?
A pained sense of confusion overawes me, confusion greater than I’m accustomed to, and greater
than literature or film alone can ever cast me into.
So many elements within the overt context sprang beyond the screen to asphyxiate me, as the
subtext insidiously filled the room with an undetectable noxious substance which burdened my
subconscious.
“The strangest thing about it all is the proximity I felt with the protagonist and the familiarity I
experienced toward the antagonist, and yet I’m uncertain of what I have just ingested”.
Hands on head, I give myself a brief moment before allowing the penny to drop.
“That was like looking into a godforsaken mirror”. I express with as much appreciation as contempt.
“Pardon my crudeness, but it was like finally reaching the lavatory and evacuating your bowels
having been sat in traffic, only then to have the offending materials jump out at you instead of
flushing. The dichotomy being that it would have been so much worse in your pants sat in a car,
leaving you to wonder if you could appreciate shit in your face whilst you’re stood in the privacy of
your own bathroom”.
She nods, her hand moves innocuously down to her thigh. I assume for a moment it was the starting
point to a thought but nothing follows.

Is this what I needed to see to make sense of what I was refusing to accept?
It’s as though Bergman theatricalised my situation for me to witness the pathetic futility of it all; the
absurd peskiness of the human condition inducing hope beyond hope.
“But then again, it may simply be a take on the universality of such a struggle, plotting the pitfalls,
and highlighting where there exists sturdier ground”.
I assume she’s enthralled by it all, silently making her own subjective connections with the stimulus.
I feel alert, more so that I have done fore months, electrified and edified, understood and instructed;
my mind in the midst of a frenzied flow.
“Maybe I can take what I’ve learnt and translate it all into a contemporary landscape and create a
psychological come philosophical didactic template”.
I hear myself, roll my eyes.
“A self professed misanthrope wishing to instruct others for their benefit”, I snigger with contempt.
Could I be more philanthropic in the haze of this drunken malaise. Then again, misanthropy is
complex, with the crux of the affliction dependant on the experiences that conjured the cloud.
My hatred stems from self realisation, recognising myself as being foul and disdainful, and yet more
capable of honesty and compassion than any other.
A worm amongst lice am I.
Then again, maybe an intense session of sermons fed on 5 philosophical tales, and 2 psychological
treatise I can mould them into being trust worthy”.
I laugh at my naivety again, how can I trust them to heed, understand, and follow through?
I almost bypasser how Dahmer esc my plan was as I dissected the futility of dealing with the
seemingly freethinking. They painfully assume they can forge an alternate truth, ego doesn’t allow
for cooperation, that is the error of the world we live in, bolster than sense of ego and image and
then wonder why one man can not stand aside another.
“Waste of time right honey, right… honey”?
I tune back into the room, reality, and its tangible atmosphere. It’s cold now, and the light nasal
sound of her breathing lets me know she’s asleep. So peaceful, so serene, I wonder how she
manages to maintain it with me. I feel like my unease has the capacity to dislodge anything, but
there, her hair covering her left eye, a faint glistening of a tear under the right, her hands clasped
tenderly atop her midriff, toes ever so slightly curled to draw in warmth.
I reach for my journal:
01:19 – Beethoven’s 7th
on in the background…
Persona just dislodged a portion of my mind, I need time to set it straight but I have this
inconvenience later to deal with. Speaking of which, I’m seeing my shrink at 10 as per usual and I
haven’t run through with my inner monologue what I’m going to say yet… aside from the fact that
I’m more concerned about how the event will affect her, and how her behaviour will in turn affect
me.

01:22, (In capital letters) WHAT’S To Come When The Sunrises?!
Shirts ironed, black tie is always a pleasure to wear.
I’ll pull out the floral one I bought for that anniversary dinner we had 3 years ago.
Ready to retire to bed.
Closing thoughts – I haven’t had the intrusive thoughts about cutting my penis off for a while, and I fucking hate funerals.
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