I am infested with memories, memories that scurry restlessly through my mind like the fleas on an old dog’s belly.
I am infested with memories that randomly break through the pathetically shallow superficiality of my everyday life, memories which punch gaping great holes in the complacent banality of my mundane preoccupations and leave me at the mercy of whatever horrors choose to emerge from them.
I remember the aching emptiness of my own existence – the unremitting unforgiving pointlessness of it all.
I remember the insistent senseless insane repetition of my own grotesquely foolish thoughts, which were all I had for company.
I remember playing endless pointless games in the privacy of my own head – games which were so profoundly meaningless that even I didn’t really care about them.
I remember my own private mythology, a defence against a reality lacking in even the slightest trace of magic, a reality so brutal and harsh that nothing soft or delicate or uncertain could ever hope to stand up against it.
I remember a city of dirt, slowly crumbling under a colossal granite sky.
I remember streets stretching out to infinity, full of empty cigarette packets, old beer cans, the discarded wrappers from bars of confectionary, used contraceptives, and half-eaten burger buns.
I remember impossible hopes and unrealistic dreams; days filled with petty, meaningless temptations and vast empty stretches of unending surreal boredom.
I remember moments of bright deceptive pleasure followed by the dark endless hours of leaden despair.
I remember conversations that made no sense at all, but which nevertheless passed the time for all those concerned.
I remember the interminable daily confusion of incoherent, murky, ill-defined, half-formed worries, illuminated from time to time by sudden stark lightening-like flashes of undiluted raw anxiety.
I remember why I wanted to stop remembering.