Outside, smoky yellow air eddies in a miasma of cloying heat around a reality of steel and soaring girder, dripping smoky fingers around realities of red pavement and the muted green of summer want. I lay my forehead against the cool glass, my reflection faded and smudged around the edges, counterpart to my thoughts and the aching and confusion of my tired heart.
I feel disembodied and removed from the silky expanse of glass and the glaring fluorescent demands behind my back. Strident voices, wanting, demanding, asking, begging, yelling … all wanting a piece of this battered spirit. Anchored heavily to the yearning earth, I am shackled to other wants and other needs, imprisoned by heavy ropes of demand. Inside, I feel my spirit wailing – a thin thready sound, barely perceptible … a muted, plaintive cry, lost in the clamouring needs of dreary reality.
I watch the drifting clouds of humid air embrace the figures which move sluggishly through its sticky embrace, limbs slow, sheened with sweat and exertion engendered by the detritus of a world destroyed by ignorance and wiful blindness.
I am finding it so difficult to find that reason to get up these days … to face each morning only to plod wearily through dreary day after dreary day. There is no spark, no urgency to push me from my troubled sleep and face yet another tedious reality of endless repetition and pointless meanderings.
I feel self-loathing for the state of my body, and my inability to maintain it in a manner I find comfortable. I feel betrayed on so many levels by the physical reality of me – a failure on so many counts that the spirit quails at the extent of my perfidy. Betrayed by its gross appetite for undermining the delight of corporeal reality, betrayed by the fading memory of lustful want, betrayed by a sluggish inability to garner will to change the course of destruction it seems intent on grasping.
I read the words of my stories and it is as if some former persona had inhabited this shell and now, without conscious thought, has been cast from my body and sent into the whirling cesspool of perhaps. Despite the greasy heat which breathes its fetid breath along my trembling swollen flesh, the sweet, clean, astringent dampness of my former desire is a fading memory, mourned with an intensity that sears regret and despair into the very fabric of the reality around me.
I am a big strapping Celt, big boned, strong so why today do I feel so fragile? Most of the time I vacillate from a rage almost incendiary in its strength then plunge suddenly into a pit of despair, so cloying my chest contracts in agony and there is a vast universe of hopelessness that overwhelms.
I think despair is worse than rage.
At least with rage, you can feel it - it courses along your veins like a toxic river of want, a bubbling caldron of heat that burns like a highway into hell and reminds you with the sting and rip of its bite that you are still alive.
While despair ...despair blankets a spirit with hopelessness that settles over your face and mouth, cloying, invasive, filling nose and mouth and throat until your lungs labour and contract in agony as you try to take a breath and instead, feel the blanket of anguish envelop you
I grasp instead my anger to me like a much-loved child and pull it into my body and sinew and muscle and gulp in the searing heat of its embrace with a fatalistic acceptance of what is to be.