Shufflefield

Nothing is real. A dream of a dream. The vain wisp of hope which keeps dying in tears and a feint weary sigh. The beer tastes of something optimistic. But the goosebumps quiver and gather and spread. Heart doesn’t so much beat as clench with an impending sense of doom.

My reality feels utterly fragile and earnest. Yet they seem to brush it off like a pesky insect. You’ve made your bed.

If only it was a bed, I could sleep now. The cocoon. The warmth. The dreams, however uneasy. Though the dreams would be akin to the waking nightmare. Walking but not sure where. And my limbs ache with the weight of treacle. And all the roads look the same, twisting into dead ends and private places. So I continue walking. Continue waking. Stuck inside a dream and a real life that both repeat because of tiredness.

Tables vacate and then fill again. How much time has passed? And who knows anything about the man in the moon?

I fall into achy love as quickly as I discard it for a more sensible option.

Stream of conscious has no place in town-planning. We are a lost generation. Fucked beyond all recognition. We licked the icing off the cake and then realised we’d spend the rest of our lives owing that icing.

Nausea sneaks in again now. Maybe for the pretty music. Maybe for the fish. Maybe for the rum.

Everybody looks half familiar, like versions of somebody else. Like a remake of a former episode. Or the re-enactment  of a crime. The social element takes precedent. What I would give for the social element.

A slightly bald man with a beard keeps carrying chairs through the door. I’m not sure he’s real.

I want to bawl like a small child. I want to scream murder so blue. I want someone to talk to, but I have nothing to say. Hyper-awareness is a drug I cannot recommend. Paranoia isn’t suited to my palette.

Words skip before my eyes. I care too much what the waitress thinks of me sat here alone. She’s probably indifferent. Most of us are. They’re playing so many songs uniquely familiar to me it’s almost spooky. The whole sequence of events is like high-performance nostalgia. So many memories crammed in, they’re forgotten before they’re recognised.

The clock only gets slower, fades to nothing, stops ticking. It only ticks when it wants to keep me awake. Now it’s no help at all. Except for breaking all those promises. I’m a burden upon the human race. Upon an Earth which cannot cope with the weight of my eyelids.

I think I’m having a mental breakdown. But I decide to do it quietly. In a solitary way. In the shade of boredom and regrets I don’t have because I don’t believe in regret.

I’m cold but I don’t know if the world is cold. Maybe I have a fever.

The light dims inside and out. Suits loiter, reading. Chairs appear from nowhere. Cocktails have been supped and gossip shared. All in the space of a blink. I wait. I wait inside a weight. I’ve been forgotten, lost, abandoned. I may as well wander the streets like a bum. I’m just killing time and by fuck, time is killing me.

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