Thursday, 20 August 2009

The Apparatus of Dread Trundled Out

Tonight I went to a concert. It was raining when I set out. A feint drizzle. I wore my coat and hat. It was the end of autumn. Dusk. I felt rather frail. That's an understatement. I was a nervous wreck.
I spoke words but felt hollow. And I could tell by the way people looked at me that something was wrong. This hollowness was obvious. I was a husk unconvincingly going through motions. What motions, exactly? Just the usual ones, really.
So, what to do? Just get a knife and open up the old wrists? Not a butter knife, obviously.
Here comes our illustrious benefactor of dread. Let him through, damn it. Here comes our cloaked benefactor of dream.
You get to the stage that this is all you've got. Better to scrawl these inane words than scrawl red lines in wrists.
Temperatures: extreme changes.
Mood: extreme changes.
Aversion to other people. Despair. Exhaustion. Ennui. Listlessness.
The doctor jotted my symptoms down as I spoke them. It was the end of autumn, the beginning of a black, muffled winter. A coarse, bleak, hollow season of yellows and whites. A slate sky hovers over me.
What else exactly was I anticipating?

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