The Eye That Sees

I am the eye that sees, I began grandly, my spirits soaring high. I am the eye that sees and the nose that smells. I’m the wind that blows and I am the… I am the… I don’t know what I am. I have run out of things to say. I don’t know where I was going with that – it’s a dead end. No point in beating my head against a brick wall, I realize. All of a sudden I feel so empty and cold – there’s nothing there that can touch the empty spot inside me and make me feel again. There’s nothing there to make me feel like a real person anymore. I do things – the type of things that always make me feel like a real person again – but nothing works. I’m turning the key in the ignition but the battery is flat. It’s as flat as can be. The battery has reached the ultimate level of flatness; the ultimate level of flatness that we all know and fear – a level of flatness from which there is no coming back. So that’s a bad moment, all in all. It’s a bad, bad moment as I’m sure you can appreciate. I’m really stuck on that bad moment as you can probably tell. Something some things you just don’t get over that quickly. That’s when my life changed completely – in that single moment. It changed forever and there’s no going back. I hunger for things. I hunger desperately for things. I hunger for something to make me feel solid again, real again. Food mainly – I think of all the places I used to frequent like Star Burger on Week Street, the Mermaid in Union Road, the Chicken Palace on Blackhorse Road in Finsbury Park, the Sharwarma King in Hounslow West, Jack’s Breakfast Bar just across from the Seven Sisters Tube Station, and a great sorrow blooms within me. This sorrow blooms within me like a flower that I cannot bear to look at. I’m suddenly and terrifyingly aware of the depth of longing that is within me and I know that it’s a longing that can never be satisfied. Perhaps before I had been able to fantasise that one day this terrible yearning that I have within me might be satisfied and the thought of this would bring me happiness. It would bring me joy. Many hours have I spent warming my hands on that imaginary fire! And the fire’s gone out for good now – even the illusion of warmth is gone. When the illusion of warmth goes you realise that it was only ever was an illusion and that’s a special type of coldness that I can’t even begin to explain. You haven’t even any memories to hold onto then because you know that they are all false. A coldness sweeps over you then, only maybe it’s not really coldness. It’s worse than coldness. Maybe it’s something else that I don’t have a word for. Or maybe it’s loneliness – a terribly extreme form of loneliness, the type of loneliness that eats you up on the inside. All you’ve got is yourself and you realise that you don’t actually like yourself that much. You’re not good company. Perhaps you realise that you’re a complete horror – something too hideous to witness. Perhaps that’s what you realize. That’s a bad one I tell myself. That’s a bad one. That’s a bad moment. I’m just having a bad moment. I’ll pull through one way or another. It’ll pass. Things won’t seem so bad in the morning. There’s a hidden poetry in everything, I tell myself. I’m looking for that hidden poetry. Even though I can’t see it, I know that it’s there.

 

 

 

 

 

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