Monday, October 03, 2005

Parisian Dream

Sitting alone in front of his computer, Robert lets his thoughts swarm and overrun his perception and he delves into the murky depths of his own sub-conscious. His head lulls as his neck relaxes, his teeth are clenched shut, his jaw sitting in his palm. On the monitor, horizontal lines bend and crack to Nick Cave and his Bad Seeds. Outside the house is darker than the inside and Robert is acutely aware that anyone could be peering in at him without his knowing. Yet his shoulders loosen and drop as his reality chases it’s own tail into blackness. And in his mind what occurs is a series of questions in the form of images, translated from electrical impulses and forgotten memories.

“What would it be like to be a girl?”
Periods, gossip and bullet eyes shooting from breast to breast unable to decide from the left or the right.
“How can I continue when I am leaving no place and going nowhere?”
Ignorance is bliss and stopping isn’t an option. Life happens with your participation or without it.
“Why do I fear being alone if loneliness is what I prefer?”
One is never more than alone.
“Should I grow a beard?”
Yes, if you could.
“What will come true, my dreams or my nightmares?”
Unless you fight for your dreams, your nightmares will rule. Prioritise the former but never forget the latter. They are the signs your mind creates to show you what it will be like if you don't change.
“If the one is the most important, why do I care so much about the other?”
God does not exist. Perception is reality. When you die, the world will cease to exist and you will never have lived anyway. Fuck everyone else.
“Why keep secrets?”
Because ‘To the one I never had to lose’ is a really mysterious book dedication.

Headlights sweep past a window and Robert motions awareness. He withdraws his forces and allows reality to creep back into the space behind his eyes. Laura Veirs ripples a multi-coloured pool, like an acid milkshake, on Roberts monitor, his song selection fourteen removed from when Nick Cave was on. His wrist is limp and his hand tingles as blood rushes back into his fingertips, which threaten to swell. Circling the house interior, he sparks lights on and flicks blinds shut, slow and methodically, mindful not to miss one.


  1. I'm not sure you should grow a beard man. There'd be something terribly unwholesome about it. Like in a childrens pantomime of Oliver Twist, where all the 'adults' are just children with twirly moustaches drawn on with makeup.

  2. Well, luckily for those out there who believe I might ditch my wholesome baby image, I cann't in fact grow a satidfactory beard anyway....
    In the future though, BEARD CITY BABY.