I am trapped in the web of my own obsessive thoughts about myself – I’m as trapped as trapped can be. ‘Welcome to my world,’ as they say. Welcome to my world. Not that anyone would be in the least bit interested in my world, of course. Only I care about it really. Only I care about my world really and actually I don’t care about it at all! I pretend to give a damn in order to get on with myself, which is important. I pretend to be interested in my own world so as to so as not to cause any unpleasant scenes. I pretend that I give a shit in order to keep things on an even keel. In order to avoid the horror, really. We all want to avoid the horror when it comes when it comes down to it and who can blame us? We all want to avoid the horror of seeing that we don’t really care about our own petty lives or about who we have allowed ourselves to become and so we keep on pretending. We keep on pretending that it’s all great fun and that we’re having a wonderful time. That’s pretty grim, isn’t it? It’s a grim old story and that’s a fact. We’re obliged to keep on putting a brave face on it and that’s the thing. That’s the thing, that’s the thing, that’s the jolly old thing. That’s my little song you see – I sometimes sing it in order to cheer myself up. Not that it ever does of course, not that it ever does….
People sometimes ask me what’s so very interesting about my rotten old obsessions. What’s so damn interesting about them, they want to know. What’s so bloody great about them? Just what the hell is so bloody wonderful about them? You might well ask of course, you might well ask. They are dry old things these obsessions of mine. They are deadly dry. They are dry like dust. Dust to choke you, dust to make your eyes stream, dust to gather in big weird clumps under your bed. My obsessions are like a word you say over and over again until it loses all meaning whatsoever. That’s how dry my obsessions are. So what can I say? Yes I act as if am very interested in them, yes I put a lot of effort into them, yes they are all I think about, but am I interested in them? What do you think? What’s your opinion on the subject? People sometimes ask me, people sometimes ask me.
Obviously I have no interest in my obsessions – what’s to be interested in, after all? The object of my jolly old obsession is myself, my very good self, my most excellent and worthy self. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I say ingratiatingly. ‘How’s your cotton picking day going boy? Great to see you. What’s the Craic? Welcome to my world – welcome to the world of me! Do I like myself? Not really. Do I get on well with myself? No. Do we have a good working relationship? No. Are we keeping everything on an even keel? No. How are you getting on there, boy? Are you having a good time? Pleased to meetcha , pleased to meetcha , pleased to meetcha. The truth of the matter is that I’m very, very tired. That’s the main thing. That’s the main fact of my existence right now. Fatigue. I’m too tired to make sense anymore. I’m too tired to care what I’m saying. It’s so very hard to coax and cajole the jaded old disillusioned ego to keep on jumping through all those bloody hoops. You’re screaming in unashamed frustration. All the repressed bitterness of your life is coming out in one big raw burst. And boy is it raw! Screaming at that poor disillusioned, de-motivated, dysphoric ego. Trying to get it to jump through all those bloody stupid hoops but it won’t. It’s given up the ghost, it’s lying down and it won’t get up.