Tuesday, 26 September 2006


I’m introducing a new section to the blog (yayyy) it’s called (defeatist)PAST-SELF and it’s basically extracts from previous diaries, sketchbooks, notes etc. It’s called defeatist as most of these will be from the DARK teenage years, where negativity, depression and drama prevailed – the script usually goes from bored to lifted to nihilism and defeatism. Besides that some of this work is still quite beautiful and it’s time it came out of the closet. I’m not embarrassed by it, I embrace it!

This first extract is actually the 5 last verses of a 19-verse epic called The Beginning, the end of the beginning, the beginning of the end, the end of the end. The first 3 sections will probably follow in a random fashion if they really wanna make an appearance that is…

13-20 May 2001

The End of the End

The realisation came cloudful followed by the arrival of myself. She had always been stalking me, trying to present him to me but I had always avoided them until they got to me while I was anxiously participating in my daily hunting: chasing some sleep. We were introduced, he seemed quite fond of me, and I have to admit, he was quite beautifully decorated with features I’d only seen in mirrors. He gave me a long kiss before she separated us. She explained that I was only to examine him closely but there would be no touching – from either side – I looked at my delicate eyes and the way my hair seemed to shift when I turned. I also came to the conclusion that I should smile more often. She then guided me to her target; I was to comprehend how I’d distorted him in a sort of Dorian Grey parody; and how I ought to start repairs. Oh, and how distorted he was alright. I’d start making excuses before I apologised – to him, and myself – she’d then put a glass wall between us, and fled before I exploded. Still, she had done her duty. But now, how can I repair the broken pieces of myself, and my world.

If those were my foundations, then I suppose I will have to demolish them and find their roots. Radicalism indeed. Thought I had a song for you but it seems as though I have been drained from my vocal virtues, if I ever had any. It seems you have managed by a mysterious way which I fail to comprehend to remove me from my right of expiring the high frequency notes we used to communicate with. As if I have to blame you, since there is nobody else to mock no more; for the absence of sleep I experienced these last few centuries. And if I was to claim my divine Right or file my objection to the supremacy that sleeps just above my head in that mocking way making me fall into a trance of some sort; then I suppose I would regain that sense of hope that things might change.

I remember the softly spoken magic spells under the sound of bells which brought my inspiring disillusionment only to realise the illusions of the very nature of my inspiration. The dream was a reassurance that the juxtaposition was a nightmare, only due to the fact that I have been abandoned by my sleep, I am forced to live within it. Still, she had done her duty.

The glass wall between us had soften and we were able to speak. You told me that I was not to blame, that you would do the same. Either way, you were me. The Eucalyptuses had drained the swamps ages ago. And all that was visible was that huge hole they left behind. I wonder what happened to all that fish. Did they lose themselves in some kind of oblivious sleep which took them down the river? Or did they wake in a waterless pitch, realising that they could breathe without it? Maybe their gills turned into a thousand feet, and they walked away to a forbidden place that they only knew. Would their gods grant them such a favour? Probably they would as their very disappearance would mean their expiration, and they had learnt their lesson since Queen Mab gradually faded out.

The fish with their new ability to kneel, would praise their fishy gods and although their eternal insomnia was the price, they happily replaced it with running, or walking. Their gods would arrogantly accept their prayers and would now go fishing converting the feetless fish into their new corrupted cult which smelled quite fishy. The patriarchal fish would tell stories of terror about the old curse of Sleep which was nothing but a double waste of time. The fish Gods would be quite satisfied with this propaganda until the fish would ask for more. (They wanted hands.) A reasonable request since the mothers of the tribe requested from their poor husbands to go fishing. They found that catching feetless fish with their feet was quite tricky, and generation would starve. They soon grew hands as the Gods were threatened by the extinction of their deformed species. But when the fish asked for wings for leisure, then it was time to stop. The skies were forced to open once more. Their layers had been ripped in pieces so that the still waters they held on their back would drown the mutated fish. Sleep had returned to the land and the Gods had some entertainment.

But still, she had done her duty. And I, as the only remaining survivor of the sleepless fish cannot fly, and have no God to pray to.

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