Watched the ring last night. Curse my febrile imagination (why is nothing else ever febrile, why are dawns always rosy-fingered, why are statesmen always overweight, and why is this line of questioning so familiar? So easy to adhere to the common language, the regular expressions that must go together – Proust had it, doing a Gormenghast, think about the coupling of words, and force-birth them into each other – grass not crisp or green or even velvety, but like boxed oxygen or low-lying sheets of putrid stomach lining… which brings me back to topic I guess.)

Watched the ring last night. Vituperate my unsleeping imagination, but I watched another laugh-a-horror afterwards, and came back to my lonely well-screened, bemonitored room. The walk back had been terrible (opening the door was difficult in itself) but to sit in my dark room with a vaguely glimmerborn black void of a screen pointing at me asleep was too much. I turned the lights on, and though my rationalisations, sorry rationality, said “horror won’t come and get you”, my bloody uncertainty, my godforsaken nihilism of belief, let me believe anything, leaving me awake into the wee hours, reading, gaming, but not doing anything that could let me think too much.

So. What I’m saying is it was a standard dull human night; avoidance of thought is our birthright, the way to cope with what comes after, and the futility of what comes now; bury it in the only worthwhile thing, the absenting of pain, and we draw it nearer without caring about the drawing down of these sad curtains.


[BTW the last post was some sort of reference to my christmas party – I think – been a while since I’ve frequented these parts…]

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About GriddleOctopus

There are few harder things in life than introducing yourself, especially in print where mellifluous nuance can turn to indulgent wankery. So. I am definitely a 'writer'. You could also call me an 'artist'. I could probably put the words 'designer' and 'consultant' here too, but they feel crass.