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I shall here attempt to write about real things in my life. I dont do this very often; I seem to shy away from such things, maybe considering my life painful enough as it is without dragging myself through emotions for the sake of words on a page. Anyway, I shall try it and see how it goes:
A friend has recently been sentenced to what seems to be at least four years in gaol. This was a shock to us who were there with him. We were expecting the sentence to be two years being released in one. It seems the judge was overly harsh in his sentencing perhaps being prejudiced about the nature of the crime (that of selling drugs). His girlfriend left the court in tears. Very upsetting to see, as she is relatively young, and their relationship close and long lasting.
For the three weeks leading up to this court case the now imprisoned friend had been staying at our house. The two of us had got on well together. We seemed to share many of the same views about things.

Bollocks to this, it is too slow going. I cannot produce a flow of words. I have to think too much about sentence structure and the facts. I prefer to use my developed style, if that is what it is, of just crapping on about internal states of mind and fantastical nonsense. I am a writer of fiction who finds it hard to mould words around sets of facts. The above was only of interest to me, making me think how to represent things in words, how facts are best conveyed, but it is all too much hard work. I want my life to be easy, and if it is not easy then I want out. Out, that is, of life and everything. No half measures here, I want it all, or I want nothing.
I use the word I a lot; I talk about myself all the time. I wonder if my so-called style is just a reflection of my internal monologue. I spend a lot of my life living with this monologue. I worry whether it is of any value outside of me. If it is not, I have nothing to offer the world no reason to be writing here.
There is also a factor in that I have not written for a long time. Does it make me worse at the self expression? I can feel my typing being slower, with more mistakes. But you cant see the mistakes; you dont see how I go back and forth correcting my word processing. You see nothing of the addled functions of my brain either, the struggles to get the words. Everything for you is right here, as fast and as fluent as you can read it. Course, you may have your own brain problems to cope with and therefore bring your own problems to this course of words, but I cannot foresee these things and only have mild inklings toward my own problems.
Are we really communicating here? There is nothing between us, only an illusion that these symbols mean the same to me as they do to you. We are both fools, fooling ourselves to feel better which is not so foolish, I suppose. You cant get better than feeling better. I feel better already. The symbols are working their magic; I am talking to you, Im talking to you all, you know Im here, and that makes me happy. The symbols reduce my loneliness.
It is by virtue of my briefly becoming the symbols, of immersing myself and my identity into words, that they have their power. I become them, these pre-existing things, and know I am not the only thing here. The words were there before me, they must know more than me, they must be able to . . . the series of thoughts is broken, it is over.

But wait, here we go again:
Why we? Why is it not just me or I whinging away? Why do you have to be here? Because, dear friends, I cannot cope alone with my miseries; I need you here with me. I need to know that someone has read me, and perhaps likes me. I am, you see, insecure as well as lonely. And so here we are, together, and should be thankful for the small mercies in life. To be honest, though, I rarely am thankful for the small mercies. I often complain, hate life, and generally despise everything. If there is a god-thing that has any level of awareness or responsibility, or any awareness of what goes on in my head and heart, then I apologise for my occasional (occasionally often) thanklessness.
Anyway, I write to you, my abstracted friend and am pleased for your existence. Thank you for being there, and for being here, now, with me, where I need you most. I am no longer alone, and my spirit is lifted just enough to write. Other times, you see, I am so stricken with depression I cant get out of bed, but here I have my words around about me and, if they are published, feel sure someone has read them and saved me a lonely existence.
I shall reward what you have done for me with a story:
Twelve kittens die in a black plastic bin-liner, the condensation of their tiny breaths eventually making the plastic cling to them as they cease to breathe. Weeks later the kittens bodies are happened upon by children who use them in a frivolous game to throw at each other so as to elicit cries of disgust.




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The following comments are for "What a Say"
by quintessenseofdust





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