A Poor Mans Bite

I am currently writing my first book, which is written from the perspective of one character. It is a daily monologue, where he describes the events, happenings, from his own tortured perspective.

The monologue is weaved into discussions with other characters. The following chapter gives an idea, with the main character returning home, having spent the previous days in being interrogated at the police station. The place is a mess, with papers and pictures thrown everywhere.

Saturday 26th May

Can you describe an emotion. Just one. Without relating to another. Can you. Just think and feel. Overwhelming rage, rippled through, right to my tips. Despair and frustration, weaved gently into absolute agony. It is impossible to see just one, without the others. Never.

Would love be in there. Of course. Of course it would be. There is nothing, no emotion at all without love. Love for something. It is the beat that moves your feet. The step forward. We go nowhere without loving motivation. And we all direct it differently. Would you say that the birds love the sky. And the lions love the vast expanse of saharan grass. Chest to the floor, as they stalk. Eyes latched on to their next victim. Do they love this moment. Do they love this victim, for bringing them such joy. For feeding them, and keeping them going. Onto the next.

Let me focus on the rage. Just for one moment. A friend, a foe, and always what I notice most. It is the carpet to the mansion, the wheels to the wagon, it goes where I go. It moves me, in many, many ways. So lets just focus, for just one moment. How would I describe it. To myself. It entertains, and trains me. It forms a huge part of this courageous strength, I clutch to my chest. It feels, like hot air, moving through my limbs, through my face, as it bubbles and boils within. Making everything tight. Everything clenched. Like I’ve held my breath, for far too long. Until every cell screams out, like hungry chicks. Desperate for some air. Desperate to be fed. Without a taste for anything. Clutching, and grabbing at everything, that might give some rest, from such intense starvation.

There are casualties in this process. It is illogical, inefficient, and irrational. But it happens all the same. Ask the scorpion, and the frog. It is survival at the highest level. Why are we shocked at an animalistic response. We are beasts of this land. We roam. We graze. We fight. We destroy everything, and anyone that threatens our survival. Using the tools that we have. This may be the flutter of beautiful eyes, poison, a knife in the back. Or the side of the face. Or pure rage. The tool that I use most. And it got me here. Didn’t it.

It got me to this moment. To this place. I craved. Home. The place that I love, and hate the most. The place I take all this vengeful fury out on. The pictures are plastered across this place. Oh dear. I must fix that. I cannot remember which fit of fury, but many bursts of anger have taken their toll on the decor. On the hards and softs of this disaster. Yes, yes, yes. I will fix this mess. And create some harmony. It reflects my soul at this stage. This place I stand upon, and dance around, and do my most precious of purposes. The reasons to being. Work, strewn from window to door, all across the hard wooden floor. The oak creaks under my weight, bowing to my presence. Acknowledging my return.

I appreciate this space. It gives me hope. A chance to recharge. And come back for more. A forcefield to the outside. Where silence can remain. And be still with me. I have been here for weeks before, merely staring out of that window, over there. It is all I need, the only stimulation I could desire. It is sometimes, sometimes, the last thing I hope to see. If only I could describe what lays beyond the glass. If only. I have tried to paint it, impossible. I have tried to describe it, to those that listened. It had devastating effects. So it remains undefined, how I like it. Just there. Out there, beyond the pain.

Immediately I feel softer. I will start to organise these papers, later. Maybe as the light fades outside. I attempted to start, as I rolled through the door, but I could not find the beginning. And I wished it would just end. Today has been, an ordeal. A trial of the soul. My body aches all over, but my mind remains sharp. It will always remain alert. Trusted servant, that watches over me. I will heal these burns, and bruises. And organise. This life, this body, of work that spreads out before me. Scrawled context on crumpled sheets, spattered across this space. I may just move them. Push them about, to see what they form. Bring them back together, reformed, in some kind of order. Clutched to my chest. What a feeling that will be. To bring all this in.

There must be thousands. A Hundred thousand poetic pieces to explore. Once more. I’ll start with the first, and end with the last. It may take some time. But that is what I have. In spades. I am the master, or the minder, to no one. I can go over there. Or stay here. For as long as I choose. To be in such control, is the greatest gift I’ve given to myself. I already feel it. This place. Why did I not come back sooner. Of course, it was not time. There were other holes, or worlds to explore. Become a part of. But none quite like this space.

I have found the most perfect place to rest. Where I can hear my own breath. An important part of living, is to know you are still there. Still alive. Still wanting to thrive. Roar like the lion, on his back, as the world lyes beneath. Looking up at the stars. Pointless specs of dust that mean nothing, but are desperate to be understood. Like those imbeciles outside these sacred walls. That hear nothing but their own voices. Yammering, and stammering, like it matters. Without a clue. Ignorant to what goes on within. Within, these walls.

I will keep refining, and editing, and maybe post more as I go on. I welcome any comments or thoughts, but please remember, it is a work in progress, with a-lot of tweaking needed.

Hoping to have the full book ready by the end of the year.