I open my eyes every single morning. So far I do, anyway. When I crawl out of bed, no, jump out of bed. Crawling tends to prolong the process and I may get stuck in that phase between feeling comfortably warm and blissfully unaware under the bedsheets and stepping into a cold, unloving world where I get to be an insignificant cog wheel in the behemoth that is 'The System.' I call that the 'Oh-fuck-not-again' phase.
Big fish eats small fish and I'm plankton.
Ten minutes later, I'm in the shower watching the water swirl helplessly down the drain, taking soap suds and invisible grime with it to sweet oblivion. This is where I ask myself how and why.
Why do I do what I do?
How did I get to do what I do?
I don't have an answer.
It's frustrating. I lose myself in music, other people's music. My brain is far too stubborn to allow me to create things.
A glance towards the fresh morning sky flashes a glimmer of hope at me. It waves it quickly towards me very much like how an elder sibling waves that much-coveted pack of gum that I've been waiting to chew on all day, then snatches it away with a bastardly smirk on his lips. Those same lips I will split open with my bare knuckles in a few years' time.
There.
A moment's distraction and I lose my train of thought. Gravy train. Gacy. John Wayne Gacy.
Perhaps I should rent a costume too. Watch the world die from behind a mask. Look at a seventeen-year old shoot his classmates in the head, then turn the gun on himself. "He was a relatively normal boy." Define normal. Relative to what? You?
I will watch a suicide bomber blow himself up into a red mist, frame-by-frame, as captured on camera. Twenty dead and forty-five injured.
I'm going through a collection of mugshots.
I can go through archival material on drug abuse cases gone wrong. Laugh at how the thirty-five year old man sliced his face off with shards from a broken mirror while on PCP, because, "they were under my face."
A smile is on my lips when I read about the middle-aged woman, ex-teacher, charged with sending "lewd text messages" to a fourteen-year old boy. Sex Offender for at least ten years. Her family and friends have abandoned her. Left her to her fate. What of the boy? Crass and fake. Reporting news for the sake of sensationalism.
I look at my arms. There is no space left.
Fuck you.
This is where I remember the "Fuck you" monologue from the 25th Hour.
And this is where I heat up the scalpel blade over a candle flame.
