No One Here But Us Chickens

Day by day the contamination grows. It’s the contamination of images; it’s the contamination of thoughts and ideas. It’s the contamination of language itself and there’s no escape from that!


I used to have a great life; I used to have it all, but now I’m nothing but a poor husk of a creature. I’m a mere ghost and the only person I’m haunting is myself. I never quit haunting myself and the reason for this is that I don’t know what else to do. My only meaningful relationship is with myself, and I’m not really here anymore. Maybe I never was. Maybe I made it all up. I am a terrible liar, after all.


‘Are you sick of yourself yet?’you ask. ‘Are you sick of yourself yet?’ Have you reached that point, that point at which it finally kicks in for you that there is nothing good about you, nothing good at all? Have you realised that yet? Have you realised it? Have you realised? Has the poor frail illusion of your own self-worth finally been dispelled? Only they’re not your questions, they are my own and I already know the answer.


I am sick of myself. Yes, I am. I wish I would go away and leave myself in peace. I wish that I would go away and leave myself in peace but the contamination has set in too thoroughly that. ‘Would you not just leave me in peace?’ I ask plaintively, but in this very question I’m haunting myself all the more. I torment myself ceaselessly, and yet I don’t mean to. I’m only trying to help myself out. I’m only trying to smooth things out for myself. I’m only trying to optimize my situation in the best way I know how…


‘There is no one here but us chickens!’ I call out fearfully, trying to avoid detection by the All-Seeing Consciousness. There is no one here but me and my mind. Move on folks, if you will, there’s nothing to see here. There’s nothing going on here. There’s nothing here but me and my mind, me and my mind. It’s a double-act, you see. We’re a duo.


‘There is no one here, there’s no one here’, I cry out disingenuously. There’s no one here, there’s no one here. No one here. The police are knocking on my door – they have a warrant for my arrest. I am to be taken into custody. I am to be taken to the magistrate’s court. I am to be tried and punished for my crimes. ‘It wasn’t me officer, I didn’t do it!’ I lie brazenly, hoping to bluff my way out of it. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t mean to do it. It wasn’t me.


I’m trying to second guess myself – I’m trying to find a loophole in my own arguments. I’m trying to catch myself out and escape my own defences. I’m trying to outwit my own thoughts. I twist and turn nimbly, I jink back on myself when I least expect it, but all to no avail, all to no avail.


I’m not in great form today. The form isn’t great, the form isn’t great. The only relationship I have in this world is with myself and I’m not really here. I’m on the run. I’ve jumped bail. I failed to present myself for sentencing and now the authorities are searching for me.




Art: Bansky_Cop /






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