I used to know a guy. He wasn’t very short and he wasn’t very tall, and I don’t know if I liked him, but we were friends. He always had dirt underneath his nails, and we argued from time to time. We drank (I compulsively, he often but little) and we watched crap TV and hung out and junk.
I don’t see him any more because of stuff, and I don’t really regret it. I’m around. I have known lots of people. Some of them with stubble on their faces, some with sad eyes, some with shoes that had more substance than my soul. I have always favoured image.
I used to do a lot of things that I don’t do now (and vice versa). Obsessed with age, convinced I am in constant crisis, short term visions overtaking those that seemed like long term visions not that long ago. When did I stop being different to this? I am always writhing, gnawing, scratching, twitching – there is a constant energy and it’s never quite pleasant. I feel like I am wearing sack cloth and the inside of my head is filled with scourers. There is never rest. There is only ever uneasy silence.
This guy, this guy I used to know. I don’t know what he is doing know (although I could take a guess) but maybe he is dead. His posture was appalling, and he is thinner than me from time to time. I get jealous easily.
I’m never quite at peace.