21. Thinking About Not Thinking

And here I am writing I don’t know what, watching a tidal wave of neatly formed letters like boats in the Navy blue sea of ink. In a font resembling Comic Sans.

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Birds twittering have replaced dog barking.
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Exhausted and exasperated by this out-of-the-blue outpouring, I stare at the page and consider the one’s I’ve just deflowered. Words from a David Lynch movie I saw last week at Mikey’s comes to mind. I can almost hear them now, whispered in stereo, in a begging dark voice conjured up by Isabella Rossellini. ‘He put his disease in me.’ That’s what these pages might say if they could talk.
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Look at all the words! This has to be a record. I haven’t spoken – or written - more than half a dozen words at a time ever since The Accident.
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The music on the radio is bugging me. Time to change the channel.
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This song – it’s familiar. From a movie or something. I know the words and sing along, with a slight change to the lyrics:

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I feel it in my bowels

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I feel it in my toes

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Death is all around me

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And so the feeling grows...

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Fountain pen noses forward, struggling stoically across the page, bleeding trails of shiny blueblack blood.
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I am going to die soon. My number has been called. I’m up to bat, but no three swings this time – I’m already out for the count. Death is in the neighbourhood, and we still have that date. When? I’m not sure, but it feels like it’ll be soon enough. I’d guess that the odds of seeing my 18th birthday – nearly two weeks away – are, at best, fifty-fifty. A toss of a coin.

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A roll of the die.


Tired now. Time for Sleep. Until tomorrow then… if I’m still here.