I guess it started how it should of ended. Attempted suicide brought me kicking and screaming into this world. I had meant to step forward, meet my maker. Find the answer, Q and A with my creator. But instead a hand grabbed my arm, and a voice reached inside my mind and said ‘dont’, with the softest sincerity, the most forceful calm, and I turned to look into the souls of this new world. One that was connected with the other lives I shared it with. I saw love, light and hope in his eyes. But also the same lost, scared, despairing sense of confusion which had led me in my previous life, in a blind, insane logic, to conclude that the best solution to my problem was a swan dive onto London’s lonely streets. But at the same time I saw love, light and hope in his eyes.

The other people at this gathering seemed aware of this oneness, this persisting life force, which ruled all existence. It gave beauty to our darkest hours and exposed as meaningless our most life consuming struggles. If I had a million pounds in bank notes I would of thrown them like confetti into the wind. For what good is money to a lost soul? How could I spend this money more wisely than the wind, older than time itself, omnipotent, a witness to each sunset and each sunrise, often pulling a tear from your eye when your own situation found it fitting to do so.

But I digress. For it is difficult to conclusively describe a situation so full of confusion. I had to get out. So I ran. Still not able to be calm. To silence my inner demon. But I was searching. Searching for an exit. Only this time at ground level.

I hit the street and was more alone when outside than I had been inside myself. I relieved myself on the pavement and the relief was fitting. It is strange to think such a base, basic, routine, natural function could cause a man so much self-hate, so much doubt, so much self loathing. But this is reality. It is stronger than politics, pride, religion. People don’t piss on the television. People don’t piss in books. People don’t cut their arms or beat their girlfriends or drink drink drink drink every day of their miserable fucking lifes. People live a series of events, with a beginning middle and an end. And something is learnt. And something is gained. But that aint reality. That is just an illusion.

A wise man told me. A graduate of my disease. That my symptoms were an illusion. My fear was an illusion. My reality an illusion. If it can happen to me and it can happen to him then it can happen to you. What do you know and what do you believe? What do you take for granted as truth? What do you take for truth as granted? What truths do you take for granted? What do you take for granted as truth?

If I could tell you. If I would tell you. Who would I be justifying? Who would I justify? How could I justify? But anyway I digress. I soon found it was impossible to walk anywhere in this city. I had managed to follow two guys to the nearest tube station. Went by the underground to the nearest overground. Got an overground to my home town, and then the long walk home.

Not my home. Not somewhere I belonged. Just a house I had keys to. It was a place with rules I didn’t abide by. Customs I did not believe in. People who did not want me to live as I pleased but to make them proud. Fuck them but I loved them and I almost stole the greatest gift they could have given me. But I didn’t do it because of them so I guess we are quits I would say.

I felt deep underground once I entered the house. I was clearly not recovered from the night before (some would say I have been permanently affected and I am not one to argue againt hearsay) so I went to bed. The house soon vibrated with the ring-ring, ring-ring, ring-ring, ring-ring of a telephone, followed by footsteps up a staircase and the door of my room opening. I took the phone but could not make out the voice at the other end.

Apparently it was an old friend, a school friend, and I had arrangements to meet said friend. To cut a long story short it ended with me in Turkey with a group of lads I had been at school with. I was drunk every day as the alcohol there crystallises in your stomach, and the next day when you drink water, the crystals dissolve into alcohol, getting you nicely wasted. Not a bad way to start your day.

Those days I was torn. Constantly. Who I was and who I wanted to be. Those around me clung to the former. Begging me to stay trapped into a system of debt, mortgage, career and identity. I tried to drag my self away from this trap, but I saw no alternative (except for the oneness which had led me to almost kill myself) except for a great abyss, a mysterious nothingness. A splinter in my mind driving me mad. One night I would smash a metal bin over my head, because I didn’t care. I didn’t care. But still I had the drive to hurt my self. Why hate if you do not care? I knew there was a greater truth, a greater purpose. But I felt as if I was the only one who could see this. I could not express my pain, and any attempt would fall on unforgiving ears. No one, it seemed, cared.

I am still searching and there is still so much I would like to express. But until I can find a kindred spirit, these words have no bearing, and so are as meaningless as life itself. That is to say it only matters to me, these words. For these are my words. If anyone I knew read these words and related them to me they would be hurt, as they do not know my self loathing. And no one else will ever read them. So to them these words are as meaningless as their life is to me. As I will never know them.

I now live on the fourteenth floor. A constantly invitation to end this tale as it should of started. But I am still searching. For I believe these clouds are lifting. I heard it in the wind.

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