short short story

Evil you! You make me a nudger too …

She didn’t like being told what to do.  She hated it, in fact.  And he’d known her all her life: from face-to-face; from her blogging outpourings over a decade or more; more recently, via social networks and other stuff she blithely went and put out there.

So this was why, when he got her to do things, he got her to do other things she was happy with, which went and meant she actually ended up doing the things she would never have done if he’d asked her straight off.

And the latest wizard wheeze really was bewitching: he managed to get her into a position where with her very own offspring she was gladly nudging them into decisions and behaviours and attitudes and results wherein she absolutely, totally, refused to take the ownership she’d always been so demonstrably in favour of.  She had sworn by such ownership, in fact; and this evil universe was laughing its socks off every time it managed to convince her to do something she’d claimed she’d never do: something, even, she had balled out family and friends for having committed foully against her very being.

She was a fraud, that was clear – and this was exactly what the universe was aiming to demonstrate.

And it made her feel sad to be made a laughing-stock.  And she even knew, for sure it was, that even her feeling a laughing-stock was something they’d nudged her into feeling.

Nothing she did was unknown by them.

Nothing at all.  Not even who she’d fuck next.

What a horrible universe, you are!” she said.  “What a perfectly horrible universe!”

*

Her former experience of mental ill-health became now as clear as ever.  Her reaction of paranoia to an environment around her hadn’t been a result of an illness itself, but far more a consequence of detecting in some strange way a connecting of actions which was on full view for everyone to detect – or not (and that was not the problem …).  Maybe she had fallen ill if one’s definition of illness is circumscribed by the idea of dysfunctionality – but if it was defined by one’s relationship to reality instead, and that reality was truly as perceived, then this paranoia she had manifested was more an accurate adaptation than a deformation.

And this is why inside she wept tears of rage.

And this is why inside she occupied a cage.

And this is why her face-to-face outside never managed to properly connect with all that cage she had inside, and all that rage she now barely stomached.

 

Standard
trails of thought

On becoming tough enough for everything …

In truth, when you toughen up, you need other people less not more.  And this slow leaking away of dependence, whilst terrifying at first, does mean you don’t have to be with anyone.  Life suddenly becomes simpler as hardness defends, encompasses and grows up around you.  In the face of a solemn and doleful universe, one becomes solemn and doleful oneself.

And that’s what’s happening.

 

Standard
trails of thought

Shards of life and person

 

Morning all (for me, at least; though I resist saying good morning …).

An early start.

Being disabused of many notions is very challenging, not to say painful.  Being taught so many lessons rather than taught to learn the same is so hard.  And the whole process is turning me into kind of a cruel and embittered person.  Which makes me sad, because if I had any virtue before, it was the kindness I strove to express. And when it was kindness I expressed, it was good.

So all that’ll be left, as these shenanigans finally reach their end-game, will be shards of life and a person who must remainder his life as tawdry book: unwanted, unread, undead almost!

I am no longer the person some people loved.  And I will, in the future, be loved by people I fear I will always find it hard to love back.

And so the circle of life does circle like vulture.  And all of us, in the end, become the carrion of an existence, which futilely we attempt to comprehend, and ultimately we fail in every sense.

 

 

And the answer is: no …

Standard
poetry

How life passed me by

Life passed me by in a million ways.

 

And the ways it passed me by

are the million ways

both your loves did ignore me:

the million ways patterns repeated, and

stabbed me like cauldrons of volcanic

liquids, sputtering and suppurating on gas fires galore,

over so many years and yores of moments past that

as they rest in passionate embrace, now cold to

the touch of memory mine – memory yours I no

longer know – I can only go

on what I still recall: and I am fatally

wounded; unable to love again.

 

For the sin of being unable to choose rightly first, yous

chose to make a choice of me last

like ultimate disgrace and repenting at

leisure-

lying realities: that even the bravery I have fought to show

goes nowhere, anywhere, any more, now.

 

And life passed me by in a million ways.

 

And the choices I must live with and the effort I must

make, to take onboard the consequences

of never having loved in a way I would have wanted,

is more than I can even announce: I have lost

the game you chose to engage: I have lost the duel

as fuel to my fears: I have lost all desire, even, any more,

to battle forwards any more.

 

And that, precisely that, is how life passed me by in a million

places and ways.

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poetry

Be[in]g a hu[man]

In man there are many sides to the question:

what we need,

what we want,

what we do,

what we waste …

only four sides to the question are these.

 

No multi-faceted diamond is

life.

 

In man choice exists, but rights do not:

what we need,

what we want,

what we do,

what we waste …

only four sides to the choice are these.

 

In man love appears often, but struggling to rise:

above the desultory nature of dailyness,

above the weary nature of reality,

above the questions that nature poses repeatedly,

above the tiring nature of nature itself …

only four natures to love are these.

 

And in man it’s so common that in breaking the rhyme

of wordage and vocabulary and verbiage and time,

we discover the truth about ourselves:

in truth, in reality, in fact and right now,

we are forged of grand selfishness

and our memories do battle to support us in these views.

 

We are nothing but self-justifying tools of our

own weaknesses; our

own pain; our

own self-contained anger and even fury; our

own frustrations so awkwardly drawn up:

my lies serve only to justify my being …

 

… and my being knows only how to believe in itself.

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