The Long Road Ahead

I had created the thought-construct fields only that’s not what they’re really called. That’s just what I call them. I made up the name just now. I didn’t actually create them either – I had nothing to do with it. The thought-construct fields created themselves; they ALWAYS create themselves. They are the self-assemblers and I am merely the impotent onlooker. Not a very flattering portrait I know but I might as well endeavour to be honest. Without honesty what have we? I make up my own names for things because that way I reclaim my power. We have to take back our power in whatever way we can and my way of doing it is by making up my own names for things. Then – instead of being the impotent onlooker – I become the Lord of Names…

 

I was like a sleep-walker – wandering, wandering, wandering. Not knowing where I was going nor why. Drifting helplessly. Barely aware even that I was wandering. Barely aware of my own existence. If you could call it that. Lost in the suburbs of despair. Lost in the burbs. The bloody old burbs. Going from door to door to find out where you live but you don’t live anywhere. I’m not cottoning on to this though – I still think that I live somewhere. I still think that I have a life. I’m back in Sycamore Close – Number 31 Sycamore Close. Life is good, I tell myself, life is great. I wonder what the day has in store for me, I say to myself. I wonder. I wonder. I wonder what. I’m knocking on the door but no one is answering. I’m not answering because I’m not home…

 

I created the thought and then the thought had created me only I didn’t create it at all really. I only say that I did. I created nothing – I was only the impotent onlooker. Going along for the ride. Cadging a lift. Life is good, life is great, I tell myself. I wonder what the day. I wonder what. What will the day. I am walking up the concrete stairwell of Beaminster House. I’ve gone back in time. My leg hurts but I can’t remember what happened to it. I’m painfully hobbling up the stairs – my flat is right up on the fifth floor. There is the familiar smell of old urine only it isn’t the stairwell it’s me, I realize. The smell follows me around like a good friend. I’ll never escape myself. I’ll haunt myself til the day I die. Good times, I say to myself, good times. I’ve gone back in time. I’m back in the familiar environs of the South Lambeth Rd and it’s a glorious summer’s day. The sun is beating down on my head. The stairs seem to go on forever and my leg is sore. The echo of my own foot-steps is the only sound I can hear. They follow me faithfully wherever I go.

 

I’ve gotten lost in the intricacies of the task. The task grows and grows – it stretches ahead of me forever. It multiplies. I’m making my way down a dimly-lit side-street somewhere on the outskirts of the city centre where the pavements reek of piss and the crowds never go. I come across a seagull going through the contents of a rubbish bin, which it has painstakingly pulled out bit by bit. It looks sideways at me, pausing in its task of sorting through the trash as it does so. Its eye glitters with cold malevolence as it regards me. Does it see me as a competitor I wonder? Does it see me as fellow scavenger combing the streets for goodies? Or does it hate me for what I have allowed myself to become?

 

The task stretches ahead of me forever. You must complete the task, you must complete the task, you must complete the task. The voice in my head intones. Like a drumbeat. Drumming it into me with grim insistence. But I’ve lost interest in the bloody task – I can’t force myself to engage in it anymore. I can’t put one foot in front of the other. I have come to a complete standstill. The task goes on forever and I know I won’t ever complete it. I don’t care if I don’t ever complete it, I realize. I couldn’t care less. All I ever hear is the task, the task, the task. Get up, get up the voices say. You have to complete the task. But I’ve forgotten what it is that I’m supposed to be doing. I think that I’ve created the task but really the task has created me. I’m locked into the dream and the dream goes on forever. I’m trapped in my own private dream and it’s going nowhere. It’s like a labyrinth; you can never find your way out of it because the task can never be completed. That’s the whole point, that’s the trick. You keep on at it forever. You keep on trying but you won’t ever win. It’s a trap for fools.

 

The task is me, I realize. I am the task that I have lost interest in. I am the fool-trap. I am the task that I no longer want to complete…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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