The Insanity that I Love.

I'm gonna try and write about something I witnessed rather than cripple us all with solipsistic  non-events. Once upon a time in a train station on the mainline to London Victoria I stood waiting, platform 1, I won't go into the reasons I was waiting for a train at 10:30 at night on a Sunday evening to central London, but lets just say it was a last minute decision prompted by a phone call from a paraletic Piekna, which included long interludes of the traffic symphony in between her slurred utterances. I stood on the platform alone, listening to the distant shouts of revealers in the pub nearby, a train pulled up on the platform opposite, then once again disappeared. The echo of the last carriage left a singularity staggering towards the exit. The consciousness, fogged and inebriated, made its way to the machine, oyster card in hand. Legs positioned, held in place by an arm clasped around the metal casing, the card was pressed against the yellow pad; a loud resounding bleep ensued, the wrong kind. Something within ruptured, appendages flail, feet kick and clatter against the machine, words lash out, vulgar, curling up into the quiet night. Now I don't know why this individual decided an inanimate object was the reason for all his life's woes but it was something beautiful to feed my melancholy lacquered mind. He kicked, shouted, punched, abused the machine; the device used innocently by thousands of people a day, but this guy instantly saw it's guilt, it's unwholesome statute, that which is too visible is beyond suspicion, the truth is hidden in the light. He finished his assault and disappeared around the corner, but that wasn't the work of a genius, I went back to wandering up and down the platform, glancing at the electronic board to see if time had become subordinated to my will, always no. Then I heard a noise, a resonance of purity and hate. He was back, he had bought a can of drink, he opened it, let it's contents violate and infect the crime of his isolation, covering the machine, shouting and laughing, two more kicks to the metal and he was gone. This insanity...

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You know, I don't really hate my colleague, she is not my enemy; I am, with my stupid, fractious, recalcitrant head. If the world would disappear, or at least hide, my head would become unmanageable, a light too bright to envisage. No longer tempered by the disgusting corporeal, fettered slick of actuality, it will sink and collapse inwards. So you see my self hatred is my reason for living, writing and loving. Love in reality must contain the facets of laughter, pain and a willed destruction of the Other, you will disagree and necessarily so do I, but that doesn't hide your/my true desire. We exist only in antagonism to things that threaten, without which we/I lose. I lose. Draw them close, breathe their used up particles,  lash out, embrace, cry, love. Pretend it never happened.