There comes a time in your life when you realize with acute clarity that all of your actions and movements are nothing more than artifice in a grand scam aimed at provoking your own personal disaster. Why do you do such things? Harming your own body, being a literary whore with a sex-blog, broadcasting your sorrow on the fucking internet for the whole twisted, evil world to dip their grungy fingers into… you couldn’t be more of an embarrassment if you stood stark-naked on your rooftop with a peacock feather jammed up your ass whimpering to passers-by about how you have passed by your hopes and dreams, that you have missed out on the passion you had wished for with all your heart. Squandered your talent, wasted your intelligence, spoke for those unable to listen, danced for those unable to lead…laid down for those unable to please you and not really giving a damn one way or the other.
Why you do these things knowing all the while that sooner or later your own lack of courage, your own inability to take action will most certainly blow up in your pretty face and not only are you doing nothing to protect yourself from all of this imminent danger, oh heavens no, you are not raising your hands in front of your eyes to spare yourself unnecessary damage in the blast, not at all. You just pour yourself your sixteenth glass of wine of the day, maybe not even a glass…a MUG for Christ’s Sake (we have a bottomless cup deal going on here!) and you contemplate your body growing rounder everyday with loathing and you silently wonder if maybe starting smoking again might not help. (help what you are not so sure.) So you just drink more and more and have all sorts of interactions with men who are so far away from you physically that they may as well be on MARS and you know that even though none of this is really very gratifying (none of this provocation of disaster) you also know that you are completely powerless and that even your most warm and kind good intentions won’t be making it too far down the treacherous path you have chosen, more or less inadvertently but then again no, you have always known that there would be no happy ending for you, that you would always be your own worst enemy. That the fear like black squid-ink in the pit of your stomach that you feel because of the disaster that you provoke sans cesse, ridiculous hamster in a wheel…that fear is there for the long-haul, for the duration. That you would have to destroy all of your physical comfort and probably end up living on a park bench feeding greasy pigeons with patches of feathers missing…
The world is filled with danger. Razor blades and drinking water in third-world countries, shards of glass and betrayal, kite-surfing, deep-sea diving, gas stoves, the light at the end of the tunnel, infidelity, e-coli…but I believe that there is nothing more dangerous on this planet than boredom. Wreaking havoc through routines, skillfully crafted, chrometered down to the second. The false enthusiasm you detect in your own voice, offering food and comfort for the millionth time.
Maybe black Doc Marten boots with steal-toe inserts can kick you into a bloody death but they don’t even come close to slippers for shattering your heart into billions of pieces of muck. Fuck.