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Some Candy Talking 12


     Oh, dear!

     Is that a wide horizon I see before me  . . .

     When you lose control  . . .  and as the fear grows  . . .

     Too late now, the edge is barely a yard away and as I think the thought I am already flailing in this empty air. No, it is not empty - it is filled with screaming, are the sounds mine, are they heck as like. This all encompassing noise. The silence then came a few seconds ago, those siren sounds of the warning, the screams drift to nothing  . . .  they become nothing  . . .  everything is always nothing.

     As it all rushes headlong within me, with increasing speed, with increasing rapidity the time slows, but it never stops, and so becomes endless until there is now this ultimate moment in a sense of slow-motion imagery - watch me as I fall.

     What happened, where did it go wrong, where did it all go so terribly wrong. Is this even real? The dream turns. It is the wide open ground which is rushing up to meet me - it is not I who is moving, not I - there is always time enough to consider the semantic dilemma which is posed in this graceless momentum  . . .

     And, I mean  . . .  how long is nine point eight metres per second per second - it is, of course, irrelevant without the knowledge given by the mean height of the said ledge or cliff or even a broken heart. To fall. The time taken and never given back makes no sense. When your life  . . .  no, my life  . . .  when my life, I hate my life, is presumed to rush before my eyes I still cannot think of you, I can only think of some such mathematical formulae. If anything did rush before my eyes, be glad that you are only watching the fall and not watching my life, you would only wonder that I had not done so much more. What is achievement. Come and witness with me. We open our eyes, we have no consideration of that final moment. Beyond moments away. Is it going to hurt, is it, don’t go there  . . .  does a split second have a third dimension, is there time to hurt  . . .  does it really matter - no plan, no thought, you did not even check to see whether tide was in or out.

     All is still so unnecessarily remote.

     Remember a day, you know the one I mean - so calm, no worries, there is not any thought of the future. It did not appear to exist but was that because the future does not exist. It has not happened and so, therefore, it will not happen  . . .  and, if it does, does it matter, what difference does it make. It was as if the world had ended had world the if as was it - random time run backwards in a loop - who was only a stranger at home - made no sense at all, as if. He promised you security, safe and warm. Then, to try and make sense of a new reality, like learning to live again. You see but the sight has no meaning, no relevance - is there any attempt at trying to make some sense out of a series of images that have never had a meaning. I do not think so  . . .  be honest, I do not think. There was no connection, no continuous sequences, nothing to create and then feel the warmth of security. It all seems so different now.

     That endless moment of loss. How can you lose something that is constantly reminding. It is just too huge, too vast and so uncomprehending - there is no sense, there is no reality. Make it all just go away - shrink back in utter disbelief - don’t touch me. Unable to cope, unable to care, disengage those thought processes and you will never stop screaming. Ever and again.

     It hurts, it hurts  . . .  the gnawing ache is total. This is the only feeling - Oh, God, please make it stop.

     Still falling. Always still time for the rescue. Here come the life guards, so uniform, so brave. Reliant. So strong. Catch me as I fall.

     Still, falling  . . .  watch me as I fall. Running over the same old ground until everything has all become rendered numb. There is no feeling, no sentiment. It is all the same. Live by numbers. Lead a normal life. Slash those wrists. Give way to hope. Remember the loneliness as a gentle tune wanders through your mind  . . .  wash away the moment  . . .  I’m waiting for something, I’m only passing time and now I’m all alone and I don’t care and I don’t care but  . . .

     No. Never live a normal life, do not fight back or even struggle just give in and accept the defeat - broken - bruised - it is not a case of wanting to die, it is merely a case of not wanting to live  . . .  and I don’t care and I don’t care. Is that so very wrong, is that so very difficult to understand. Just do things that do not end, it is all the same, it is all endless, over and over and over again, because there is no end  . . .  ad nauseum ad infinitum addendum  . . .  you will never be ready to die and so it cannot not happen because there is no future. And if there is no future why do I constantly feel that I am only living in the past. Justice. There is no reason. There is no solace.

     Drifting.

     Is that ground getting any closer yet - maybe, maybe not - it does not seem to be important any more - what is it that I want, what could possibly resolve the issues and make me happy. Should a conclusion come to occur. The answer, it must, of necessity, be some form of acceptance, an acknowledgement of a truth.

     I suppose, ultimately, in a more existential form, there is always likely to be some gordian knot or, alternatively, perhaps, and even more correctly, we find it will be along the centre line of a mobius strip that my life will always follow  . . .  and so there never will be an end to reach. Looping endlessly around and reaching the same crisis again and again  . . .  relentlessly  . . .  I can’t take it no more  . . .  so, until the next time. The hurt is here and, just like a broken leg, it will be of no use. It just stays here and there is no point in ever searching for any resolution or conclusion  . . .  or, even, don’t laugh, any hope.

     Just watch me as I fall - we watch each other timelessly as this death slowly revolves in that forever recurring loop  . . .

     . . .  and the life guards just stand there  . . .  stand there, silent, waiting  . . .  and, yes, there is one standing at each of the stations of the Cross  . . .  extreme unction.

     Cry for me  . . .  cry out for me  . . .

     So be it.

     Jump with me.