Years later, I found a little box where I kept my most prized possessions. It was empty. Had I not wanted anything as a child? Perhaps I had lost everything. I remember losing my toys at a ridiculously rapid rate. Even now I consistently keep losing things, and people don't trust me with their lighters and matches any more. I pocket them absent-mindedly. I pocket all sorts of things absent-mindedly. (I am an absent-minded thief.) I am stranded in my self-made island of wretched carelessness. I mean no harm. (I am a harmless possum.)
It was empty.
Are we compelled to put things into our little boxes and spend the rest of our lives scavenging through our neighbour's backyard looking for more? I hold every shit in the morning closer to my heart than mere material wealth.
Often I drown myself in self-pity and try to justify my disregard for the enormous web of humanity that surrounds me, with vague philosophical ejaculations. They are all premature (ha, ha). It seldom works. Perhaps it is the sperm count (my philosophical penis is weak). I am like a dog without an appetite in a land of raining biscuits.
I have recurring dreams. I have recurring dreams of being followed by a dog, rabid and mangy, mouth frothing at the lips. He stalks me everywhere I go like a lonely drifting spirit, inching closer all the time but never close enough. Every morning after, I would awake with goosebumps scourging my back and no morning erections. (I still have these dreams now and then and cannot figure out why he is so intent on following me even into offices, banks and classrooms. I must be going crazy.)
I must be going crazy. People mention this all the time but seldom mean it. It is half-hearted and lethargic. It breeds loss of breath. It is death. Often it loses its meaning and observers let it go by without pausing to mull it over. Words die in conversations on the profound. (Words die in English classrooms.) Usually it is a lie. If a man were to truly realise the inevitable demise of his sanity, it would send a nerve-racking chill up his spine (And plant rabid dogs in his dreams. He will be followed everywhere forever and ever.) If I am to go insane, I will need nothing more than an empty room and a box of paint. (I have learned to keep things simple.) I will paint the room to my liking. People can watch me as I paint the walls over and over again. It will be like a zoo. (I am a majestic tiger, and the paint is my roar.) (I am Sisyphus, and the paint is my boulder) They will throw me treats now and then and I will grovel and drool on the floor like a pathetic worm. (Insanity is no joke.) I hope to goodness I don't become crazy enough to eat all of the paint. I hope it never happens (and now it will because I've thought of it. That's how it is on this bitch of an earth.) That would be a real shame. (What will I draw with?) That is bad enough to be deemed as torture. (What will I do when I'm bored?) I hope they don't put me in a straitjacket. I expect I will die out of an excess of defiance (paranoia) or claustrophobia (paranoia). It has to be paranoia. I do not trust myself. (Sometimes I feel that everyone I know are aware of something important, and keeping it secret from me) How will I draw with a straitjacket on? I will have to use my mouth. I will have to try. Apparently some people can paint with their anus. (I will have to try.)
I will have to try and put things into my little box. Maybe cut-outs of pretty girls and some money. (These days little boxes are known as banks). I hope they're worth it.
It was empty.
Are we compelled to put things into our little boxes and spend the rest of our lives scavenging through our neighbour's backyard looking for more? I hold every shit in the morning closer to my heart than mere material wealth.
Often I drown myself in self-pity and try to justify my disregard for the enormous web of humanity that surrounds me, with vague philosophical ejaculations. They are all premature (ha, ha). It seldom works. Perhaps it is the sperm count (my philosophical penis is weak). I am like a dog without an appetite in a land of raining biscuits.
I have recurring dreams. I have recurring dreams of being followed by a dog, rabid and mangy, mouth frothing at the lips. He stalks me everywhere I go like a lonely drifting spirit, inching closer all the time but never close enough. Every morning after, I would awake with goosebumps scourging my back and no morning erections. (I still have these dreams now and then and cannot figure out why he is so intent on following me even into offices, banks and classrooms. I must be going crazy.)
I must be going crazy. People mention this all the time but seldom mean it. It is half-hearted and lethargic. It breeds loss of breath. It is death. Often it loses its meaning and observers let it go by without pausing to mull it over. Words die in conversations on the profound. (Words die in English classrooms.) Usually it is a lie. If a man were to truly realise the inevitable demise of his sanity, it would send a nerve-racking chill up his spine (And plant rabid dogs in his dreams. He will be followed everywhere forever and ever.) If I am to go insane, I will need nothing more than an empty room and a box of paint. (I have learned to keep things simple.) I will paint the room to my liking. People can watch me as I paint the walls over and over again. It will be like a zoo. (I am a majestic tiger, and the paint is my roar.) (I am Sisyphus, and the paint is my boulder) They will throw me treats now and then and I will grovel and drool on the floor like a pathetic worm. (Insanity is no joke.) I hope to goodness I don't become crazy enough to eat all of the paint. I hope it never happens (and now it will because I've thought of it. That's how it is on this bitch of an earth.) That would be a real shame. (What will I draw with?) That is bad enough to be deemed as torture. (What will I do when I'm bored?) I hope they don't put me in a straitjacket. I expect I will die out of an excess of defiance (paranoia) or claustrophobia (paranoia). It has to be paranoia. I do not trust myself. (Sometimes I feel that everyone I know are aware of something important, and keeping it secret from me) How will I draw with a straitjacket on? I will have to use my mouth. I will have to try. Apparently some people can paint with their anus. (I will have to try.)
I will have to try and put things into my little box. Maybe cut-outs of pretty girls and some money. (These days little boxes are known as banks). I hope they're worth it.
