Sometimes things happen outside which would identify where I am, I suppose. The noises and the wailing, the boop boop of the cop cars, the sounds of something or someone hurting to the point that human or animal it doesn’t matter. Humanity from animal reality is barely distinguishable: pain is pain all the same, and in the end are we are all reduced to a small high pitched begging for mercy?
This is not the neater side of town. Things are messier and bloodier and somehow more alive, and I’ll say it, more real over here. I wish I lived there. I am sick to the bones of reality.
I can’t drown out a whimpering that carries on until the point that there is no more sadness, no more agony; that travels to the perfection of no more ‘any more’. I see a large cop out there, dealing with what needs to be dealt with. Someone shouts “fuck you” and you know he isn’t shouting it to the Cop, but instead to Life.
Fuck you life, fuck you! I raise a finger in solidarity, and having heard not seen, draw my curtains. I am of no use anyway, besides I have seen too much sadness and heard too much pain.
Living up here has turned me into a voyeur of misery. A connoisseur of pain. A cataloguer of loss. I feel like I need some counting beads, an abacus, to keep track of the losses vs the gains. There is a joke or a flippant remark to be had there, that I can’t raise the will to make.
It seems somehow churlish to complain or to write something easier, something quieter, something funnier.
I don’t want to go out with a bang and a whimper. I don’t want to go out in a crushing of skull or a smashing of scars opening up. I don’t want to go out in a flash of fury from the Angel twins of Speed and Heat. I don’t want to go out on a street, leaking red onto blacktop. I realize I am supremely selfish, but really who cares enough to take me to task on it.
A man writes the word Truth on a slip of paper, and presses it to my forehead, and as the dust rises so do I, vengeful and precise. Beware. I bite.
I ain’t going out that way.
I give life fair warning.