Mainstream

wel e ws jst dif wsnt e. nt much els u cn say bout t rely. sad bt fuk t. nyway 1^st tings 1^st e ws annoyin. made u feel a idiot. e ws up der n his throne lukn dwn hawhawhaw stoopid pesants. al dat sh1t. i mean ppl cn nly tak dat so long b4 u start getn sh1t bak at u. his own fault. stil a shok lyk wen t hapend. Bt no1 els 2 blame ryt. his ma wud say dif. d uproar d day of t. nd al d cryn den. i cryd 2 bt lyk u had 2. yanno. Yea ah wel. God b gud n al. L

Preconditioned imbeciles. Inculcation. Yes, that was it: inculcation. ‘You will like this,’ and they do. Her latest one is brilliant, and so on and on . . . This is what normal people like and do; are you normal? Greatest slavery of the soul yet. Even Supreme Being benign in comparison. At least only small duties there. This is life, not an hour a week. Religion of the present self, not just immortal soul. Immortal: impossible. So what difference, really? Makes none. And it’s the same all down along the screen. Why do you bother? Depresses you in the end, the more reality becomes clear. If nothing else, it serves that function: exposes reality. They don’t see it; do they? No, they couldn’t. How could they? Everyday waking up to darkness. No, not darkness either. What, something that covers the light. Cap, canopy, covers. No. Something. Curtains. Yes. Waking up to close the curtains for another day.

                You should write it down. Put it there. It won’t get liked, you know? But who cares? They do of course. Life’s worth measured in friends and likes. Bullshit. ‘Each morning you wake up to close the curtains for another day.’ Return. See how they like that. Like. Not a hope. And are you any fucking different after all, are you? Are you not after the same thing? It’s hard to know. The noises you pump through your ears . . . Is it just because they’re noises with a different name. We’re not popular, so we’re better. But they are surely. Aren’t they? There’s meaning. Thought. Depth. There is. There has to be. Some kind of nourishment anyway. What was the word? You wrote it down . . . somewhere here. Where . . . Yes, wait now . . . vermilion: a brilliant scarlet red; effulgent: shining forth brilliantly; and, yes, here, pabulum: intellectual nourishment (or physical, such as food). Pabulum, there has to be something extra of it, surely? It’s all right, Ma, I’m only bleeding. How could you compare? Disillusioned words like bullets bark / As human gods aim for their marks. There’s more. Yes, you must be right. Whatever else, you must be right. To know you’re living a lie is not living. Death despite breath. Hmm. Put it down. Too soon again? No, what difference. When no one listens you may as well shout.

                Aha! And the masses answer . . . Let’s see, who is it? Paul. Suppose he’ll have a thesis written for you. Question for the metaphysical worth of your point, maybe?

                --wat d fuk r u on bot nw????!! curtains!! ur a fukn skitzo man!! Sort ur lif lyk

                Enlightened. ‘Schizo.’ Sort my life. Suppose I should. Though low when they give advice on what they have not themselves. Where would I start? It’d be like trying to piece together a million fragments of broken glass. Perhaps I’ll give him that, and see how he deals with it. A million fragments. All jagged. All dangerous. I could bleed to death with the slightest cut. Bleed . . .  Oh, how happy I would make them then; how much easier their lives would be. No questions, only answers. Is that not all we/they want? Here we go again . . .

                --lol!!! glass??? Ahhhh man wat hapend d curtains???? cut em up insted!!! hahahaha!!!!

                Brilliant. The English are funny, but the Irish have wit. What idiot spouted that? It was one of those charlatans at mother’s birthday last year, wasn’t it? Oscar Wilde, she said, looking around the table, and the rest nodding away like sheep. What would she know about wit? Provide examples, Miss. And prithee tell us whether the genius in question was Irish or English, and to what extent he could be said to be both? Go on, dear, you brought this up. The Irish are funny, no doubt; are we not the laughing stock of the world, sure? Guffaw, guffaw! Of course you sat, and chewed away – chewed? masticated you could say – on your dinner; smiled politely, tittered occasionally. That’s what you do in this world. Otherwise you won’t do at all. Ain’t that the truth? Oh, wait . . .

                --Go on Paul!! Haha! U tell him! :D

                Well now, Sarah, that was less than kind. And she supposed to be one of our brightest stars. What was it they called it? It wasn’t student of the year . . . Person of the year. That was it. A nice certificate and a cheque, as well. How lovely. For generous contribution to the school and her class, both academic and extra-curricular. Yes, the ideal person. Good at science, sport, socialising, being spurious, specious. All you want in a person really. It couldn’t have been student of the year – that would have required being studious. But she was perfect. She asked the questions that could be answered. And over five hundred points she had in the end, wasn’t it? Highest in the school anyway. You could have been, you know that, don’t you? But that would have been compliance, and you could never comply. Rather stupid. It would have been something to gloat about, if only in silence. Reading The Great Gatsby instead of whatever it was they were reading in English. And you liked English. You liked Mr. Maguire. Why, then, be so stubborn and foolish? What did you achieve? Sitting here at home every day, and the rest of them in college. Academics that they are. What a gratuitous waste.

Oh, hold on, another comment, is it? Sarah has tagged one photo of you . . . Christ, not another. One from the last night again? Ah, yes. Dear, dear. Look at your eyes, for chrissake. They’re in another world, or looking into it, in any case. And your florid cheeks. That must have been towards the end of the night. Your shirt is clean there. Mother was still going on about the state of it yesterday. And it was she that had wanted you to go out socialising again. Obvious from your eyes that you were going to throw it all back again, though. And there’s Joseph laughing away. You’ll have another, won’t you? Ah, don’t be a pussy, can’t handle a few pints? You knew once you’d start that that’d be it. Your escape would eventually form an ineluctable labyrinth. Look at your hair: the wild disorder. Tufts flying in every direction. Each wanting to drag you their own way. Poor thing. This is you. This is the sorry miracle of life you’ve been granted. How fortunate you were to be graced with this most unlikely of gifts. Best to remove the tag anyway. Remove all tags of existence. Herself and her camera: why the need to capture every moment? A picture says a thousand words. There they are: the one thousand words of your reality.

--whyd u go untaggin urself agin??? L afraid mammyll c it?

Could she not just leave it? Fucking person of the year . . .

--Because they show me show me that which I despise: the one thousand words of my reality.

A sign of weakness? Yes, but in that lies strength. No? Of course not. To be strong one must forever make others weak. What had you written down there last month? Here in your notebook . . . ‘Those who are richest need not prove it with crowns.’ Bullshit. There is no other wealth but the material kind. One cannot afford wealth of the mind, it is far too dangerous.

--jesus christ man ur just gettin 2 . . .

Fuck her.  What was the point of listening to any more of it? You’d been told it all now. Making it as clear as they could for you. Hmm. What time home? Seven? Yes. Three hours. Plenty. Hmm. No. Stupid. U’d had this convo before. Never made sense afterwards. Clear mind hates hazy thoughts. Clear mind? Ha! Man ur just gettin 2 . . . 2 what? 2 everything. Der’s a length of it in the cupboard under d stairs, u saw it d last time. No. Like uncle pat. And Dad: what was wrong with the fucker? Why do this to us? 2 u? 2 himself, no1 else. U knew. U had seen d scratching under his watch weeks b4. Poor guy. It wudn’t have been ur place 2 say anything. No. D balcony ideal. Faces d bak. Nothin gruesome. Sum respect nyway. Here it is. Strong. No. & coverd in muck. wat d fuck was he usin it 4? long enuf 2. jst d job. No. wit granda n d boat. dis is d prefct knot maboy. nly thing u wer nyways gud at. caut no fish. bt he ws proud. nly 1. gone now. sleepin wit em. easy. d loops. its al jst followin a patern. do dis den dis den dis. lyk life. easy. if nly. gud nd strong. no? sum view dad sed d day ye bought dis place. lukn out on d mountains. nothin in d way. perfct. dark mountains. clouds. brandon. went climbing lst sprng. nice day. d little rivers nd streams u can c frm ere. luvly 2 jst flow. dwn d styx soon. u wudnt b so luky. dark is all. dark lyk d mountains. dark lyk d clouds loaded wit water. bt dey can let it go nd b clear agin. liter. rise higher. move on. pik up more. let it go. rise higher. move on. pik up more. let it go. rise higher. move on. pik up more. let it go. rise higher. move on. pik up more