About Me

You have to be there to see it she said but she was wrong. No one would have wanted to see that. What are you talking about? It was an internal dialogue. No one could have known what she was talking about. How could she sell it then? It wouldn’t sell. That would be impossible. She was an arse scraping failure. She knew it. She wasn’t sure how many other people did, but she was paranoid enough to expect that everyone did.

So she carried on writing and writing and never stopped, not even to rephrase or to correct mistakes, she just carried on and on, not redrafting, or bothering with plot or sense or any other prevailing issues that go with the art and the craft and the plain stupid pursuit of writing. For what was writing? It was the art of intellectual wanking, that got praised by those who came the loudest, and who could wank in public without fear of looking ridiculous or fear humiliation or embarrassment. So that was it, and she couldn’t do it. She wasn’t much of a wanker. Maybe because she was happy in a relationship. But then why should you go out of your way just to be unhappy so you can be a successful wanker? There’s no point to it. So why carry on? Because somewhere in your little barely pulsing charcoal heart is a need to express yourself. It’s not even a need to be heard or read or praised in any sense or form, it’s just a simple need to think. If I couldn’t think I’d be dead, but then sometimes when I’m sat here in this room, I can’t think. And I know I am dead. Not physically.

But yet, there she still goes, hammering away. Stabbing inanities at the keyboard. Forgetting punctuation. Going with non-secuiturs. Ignoring spelling mistakes. And bad sentence structure. Getting told off left right and centre by a computer that marginalises thought.

So what should she do now? Simply carry on? Who can tell? Actually she knows she’ll only be able to write until the bottom of the page because her imagination is as stilted as her physical being. Her mind is sedentary. It doesn’t exercise much and at times feels as if it is going mad. She sees dark shapes coming to life in dark corners. Twitches at the sight, like a cat twitches at barely audible sounds, leaping into the air at the mere clip or hum of noise. The shapes never manifest themselves into tangible things as the sounds never become completely clear.

But they startle her just the same, and she doesn’t know why. She doesn’t know why because she has lost the capacity for thought. Which is why she is no longer capable of knowing what, why, or how to write. It’s a terrible state of being, and not a little influenced by the fact that she’s a tosser, and if she wrote anything to the end no one would be interested in it anyway. So there you are. She’d carry on though, for fear of her mind closing down altogether. Where once there was a fear of doors not opening, there is now a fear of her mind closing down completely. So the act of writing is merely only a form of exercise, for the mind. But physically for the fingers – since she doesn’t wank, literally or figuratively. It’s an empty pursuit, filling a void. Sitting here, where a hole used to be, is now a hole filled with puss. So at least there’s something in it now, which, if it’s so inclined, can fester. Or it could just disappear. Either way, no one will see it which is just as well because it would ruin their lives. And that, is basically what no one should have to encounter. The ruination of their lives. It’s all nonsense. But can you read it? Can you see it? No? Then don’t worry about it, as I said, there’s no reason why anyone should see it. It’s abhorrent.