I was doing this thing I call ‘scraping by’. I like to think I’m quite good at it. I am quite good at it, if I say so myself. Although maybe that’s a contradiction in terms – how can you do a good job at scraping by? Nobody can do a good job at scraping by. You have to make a bad job of it – you have to scrape by at scraping by and then you’re doing OK. Only you’re not really doing OK at all…
That’s all beside the point however. I don’t know why I got so caught up in saying all that – my mind keeps running off in pointless directions. For reasons best known to itself. For reasons best known to no one at all. My mind doesn’t know why it does that. In fact my mind knows nothing – I’m under no illusions there. It’s a broken machine, governed by entropy. My mind is an entropy engine, nothing more, nothing less.
Certainly nothing less. What could be less? What could be direr than being ruled by entropy? My mind is a haunted house. Dusty floorboards creak late at night under the pressure of invisible feet. The place is riddled with evil spirits, wafting around the corridors like ancient stale farts. My mind is a hornet’s nest of bitterness, easily disturbed. The king and queen of demons sit on top of a vast pile of broken toys. I’m in a dream. I shake him by the hand but his arm comes off. It’s the weakest of handshakes. I’m left holding it. A hollow sepulchral belch sounds out over the hallway but there’s no one there. The room is empty.
Do you ever get the feeling that you just aren’t able to live life properly, that you just don’t have what it takes. You’re failing at it – you’re failing on all sides. You’re doing a very bad job at it. You’re running scared and your avoidance of life is taking on a life of its own. It’s running away with you. Because you are too cowardly and too irresponsible to do anything about it. I don’t just get that feeling from time to time – I have it all the time. I do my best not to pay any attention to it and for the most part I get away with that. I’m able not to pay attention. My mind distracts me with its ceaseless rubbish and for this I am grateful.
When demons possess you you don’t know that they are there. You think that they are you. Or the demons think that they are you. I don’t know which way around it is. I don’t know anything about it. They feed on predictable behaviour and that’s all I know. They don’t like change. That’s not their idea of a good time; their idea of a good time is to keep on doing the same old thing they always do, to keep on enjoying the things they always enjoy. They’re monsters of predictability – if anything gets in their way they get very, very angry. Poison comes out of their ears, their nose, their mouth. Very terrible poison. It’ll eat through anything.
Do you ever get the feeling that you’re only barely scraping by, that you’re not really pulling it off at all? You’re faking it that everything is OK but underneath all the lies you know that it isn’t. It’s all slipping away from you. You’re trying to keep a handle on it but that’s not actually true. You’ve given up trying. You’ve given up. You’re just letting it go to wrack and ruin. There’s nothing you can do. You just don’t want to know. You want to bury your head in the sand. Your mind keeps babbling rubbish and in the dim recesses of what’s left of your consciousness you are grateful….