Snarling obscenities to myself, I open the refrigerator and pull out another strong cold beer.
Huffing with the effort, I open the beer with the opener and drop the cap off in the bin where it rattles along with its brothers and sisters of bottle caps and beer caps empty cans and empty bottles of the previous night’s consumption.
I sit down to the keyboard barely able to remember my name only aware of the ball of steel that throbs a seething ball of love and hate deep in my stomach.
It burns like a planet on fire ever expanding, ever consuming everything in its path. I throw everything at it but it in turn just consumes it with flame.
How am I ever going to be able to finish my novel and tell the world my story, of what happened to me when I was young?
It would not make any difference anyway. It’s all buried under so much sticky toffee pudding its all goo and irretrievable to me to comprehend. How does the man born blind explain blindness to you? I don’t know who I hate. I no longer know how to love. I don’t care for enemies but I have them. Nothing is worthwhile except the short pieces of prose I can achieve or poetry in blank verse.
I’ll be honest. I had hoped for more.
I'm bilaterally deaf, schizophrenic, autistic, talented individual. I can see you thinking...What was his day job? Well, I am a qualified systems engineer and i worked in computers. To be honest I can't remember what I wrote in my bio which I deleted. I write I draw, It is my goal in life to be anything but facsimilia. I believe life is duodecimal, you live you die, dark. Some call this depression and indeed I am a depressive schizophrenic. To be something is a great thing-some call it drosophilae syndrome(to be studied), a term I coined myself. As I appreciate in words as I get older sometimes it helps to remember what it was like being a child with drosophilae syndrome where the other is to be seen. This is why I draw and write. 