It has taken me an hour to write up five hundred words of shit I’d compiled, extracted, during a frenzied, drunken night in a hotel room in Ramsgate several months ago. Sometimes I am ill-suited to write. The person… no. The aspect of me that favours the written word is not always forthcoming. I am not always a writer. More often that not, I am nothing, a distraction, a passage of time. Tonight – I am something in-between.
There has to be fire. There has to be blood. The real work of writing – of proper writing, the writing I do here – can’t be taken lightly.
I sit back in my chair and sip at a beer that smells of farts. I reach for my ageing pouch of tobacco and roll another cigarette that I have given up. I was supposed to cut my alcohol intake, but I drink to be myself because it reduces the efficacy of the drugs I’m taking to stop me wanting to die all the fucking time.
I write best when I’ve forgotten to take my drugs. What does that say about me?
There are so many aspects of ourselves. So many people we are, people we were or will be. And through it all, there’s a part of me, something I keep under lock and key.
The reality of this situation, the facts, are that I forgot to take my medication last night, as such, due in no small part to the brief half life of said medication, I am suffering withdrawal symptoms. These symptoms primarily involve terrifyingly lucid dreams, a resurgence of my dampened sex drive and sudden emotional collapse.
Too frequently do I forget, I am a liability to myself. Sometimes, in desperate need of a contrast it may be intentional. Sometimes we need to be reminded of something.
Tonight I am reminded of the horror I keep buried within me. I am angry, furious for no reason, with no justification and no end. A futile scream echoes through me. I am stained with the aftermath of that, it coats me.
The man who was a slave to that is no more – I am his replacement. I am the present and this is now. Tonight, I am reminded of who I was, of what I have put to rest. Tomorrow is another day.