post prickly-backed anxiety

it's so scary walking home post-midnight. but when i reach the homestead i have this smug smirk on my face. sucked in murderer, my contorted lips seem to say, youve been waiting in the wrong shadow of the wrong alleyway.

tears stupefied.

father, youre cute and all, what with your greying hair and sunspots, the stockmans hat you wore as the coffin lurched into the void.
but your sermon, that sermon, did nothing to comfort me. this you speak, about an afterlife? a god? it seems that you forgot to mention the desceased, for favour of focusing on the non-existent.

nothing compares to chhuuu, oh nasty head hair

With ends split for here to eternity, and with a time consuming inability to trimming the perpetually splintering ends, it was about time I got a haircut.

Those days hunched over my desk, or on the edge of the bathtub, scissors in hand, hands clammy from the concentration of attention, eyes crossed, as I sought the schisms of each hair end.

I kept a specimen. I shut it in a jar. To the untrained observer, that is, everyone, bar you and I, dear reader, it seems to be a hollow jar. Lid screwed on tight in a bout of delusion. But you and I, now know, in this jar, therein lies perhaps the mothership of all ends split. The weakest, the most brittle, the stunning, the far more impressive than the ends that separate threefold. This starved filament of keratin bore a fringe of its own.

I remember when I first singled it out. It is the ends I judiciously snip off, but here, no end to be had. My eyes couldn’t cross enough, by neck wouldn’t twist enough, to see this hair in its entirety. In a radical act, my fingers gently traced it to its root, and form that beginning, I cut it off. To find with wide eyed amazement, the fringing ran all through its length.

High time to get a haircut, yes. I could have gone to just cuts, saved myself a much needed $30. I recalled ‘just cuts’ been the high school nickname of a brooding dark boy with an odd flop of hair.

I’ve wanted to change a part of my body dramatically for a long time. Perhaps a lip piercing, a few extra dress sizes? My friend suggested a tattoo; ‘qualms’ across my chest in a gothic script. A haircut was the most conservative option.

My guilt at choosing an expensive hairdresser was allayed, as I told him to cut my hair very short. My reasoning was that this would mean a greater length of time before my hairs grew into old age, I save money.

He asked me how I was. I replied that I had been hypnotised today. He replied, his conservative mode of conversation diametrically opposed to my radical whim to get all my hair chopped off, “that’s good”. His task at hand must have been all consuming. So I buried my thoughts into the Ok magazine.

A wet curl plopped upon Jennifer Aniston’s body. I looked up to the mirror and was startled to see I had no hair.

left behind

I really wish I could believe in an afterlife. I wish you weren’t gone.
I am disgusted with the world, with how people just die.

And so I thought of him as a young boy, writing down his name. I just kept writing his name down. That old man, not unlike my own grand father.

I had received a text message from my friend, my phone had buzzed with sanguine vivacity, just as the door had been closed, just as my mother had left the room, she had told me.

That reconciliation of life and death.

The chirpy message from a friend wanting to go out. Myself at my desk, surrounded by papers, all day wishing the day would pass; the study to end.

The thought of the demise of all around me. Of my own. Sitting here, the knowledge of the fun to had, of the immediate gratification of a night out with friends. Then of slow tedium, that lugubrious plodding through the aisles of study, towards a boring albeit more sustainable gratification.
The knowledge that what ever was chosen, what ever was done, what ever said, whatever sought, would end.

There was Guiseppe. A quiet man. A kind man. I had only known him in his old age, from my birth till my twentieth year. He was always old. I remember him as old. But not as dying. I hadn’t that misfortune of seeing him in his final stages of decreptitude. I had heard he had been placed in palliative care. That vulgar apparatus of death.

go shop.

with the boxes at war for your attention, it's easy to disregard the discrepent ticking, that discordant clunking of time oh so ignorant to your pithy whims. the promise of a bargain, your silver lining.

Air Pressure

I officially became crazy when i started slapping myself in the tutorial in order to remain awake. My slapping tune was so loud that my astounded classmates turned around to locate the source. The silence that ensued reverberated around the room with such a vacuumous intensity that i heard my tutor quife.