Writer’s Notebook: Once upon a time in Brighton

Posted: September 15, 2015 in graffiti living
Tags: ,

I worry that I might be schizophrenic.
I walk down the street utterly convinced that everyone is talking about me. And it’s always something bad. They all think I’m a cunt in one way or another.
They all know the truth.
I feel like such a fucking fraud. I say out loud the things that I want in life and I no longer believe them to be true.
I don’t like it here. I can’t remember the last time I was truly happy, or for how long.
Fleeting moments at best.
Everything is a fragment now.
The best that I can do.
Running out of breath. Running out of time.
But time was never yours to spend anyway.
And so what now? The only time I write is when I can’t sleep.
Guilty fucking conscience, I guess.
We’re all guilty of something, and nobody knows best how to persecute you but you yourself.
You can be your own judge jury and executioner because you know what a worthless shit you really are.
Satisfied that justice has been served.
But every mind is a sewer. So what the fuck did you expect?
You’re bound to get covered in shit at some point.
This really is it, the end of all thought.
The tape has wound tight and snapped and choked up the player.
Stuck in an endless loop, dead air, borrowed time, just another fucking line that you read somewhere else before.
In the beginning there were no cliches.
I’ve got nothing left that I want to say to you.

Any questions? Anything you want to say or ask me? Because I am done talking.
This shit is over, brothers and sisters.
Start digging.*

*This was written years ago. I’m sharing unedited pages from my notebooks. Please only leave comments with that in mind.


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