By: Rorshach 1004
Date: 1st February 2016
Whenever I want to feel down, I can go down town, to the
site of nothingness, literally nothing I can walk, and watch, and buy a coffee
from a Polish girl. I think she was Polish, but she could have been Ukrainian, or
anywhere in the EU really.
She said milk. I thought she said mirror. The bloke next to
me translated, thanks for that mate. He’s used to it. I’m not. I couldn’t
understand a word of what she said, and so I said ‘yes,’ instead of ‘what?’
Why bother to communicate when ‘yes’ will suffice?
Yes, I’ll have the milk.
Yes, I ordered the toastie.
Yes, I’ll pay my bill, my taxes, and my funereal rites.
But no, I will not wait in purgatory.
The big no, reserved for the self, the others always hearing
yes, the no a surprise, keep it to yourself.
This blog is purgatory you know. Like town, it’s there, but what does it offer?
I have stayed away, and I feel good about that.
Return to nothingness is always painful.
A review of the latest 2000AD- Hero Pat Mills shouts,
readers complain about ‘conspiracy’ stories their minds directly controlled by
central government thought control Inc.
The enslaved hate it when you talk
about their chains. You will not go there. The man with a whip says it’s untrue,
therefore it must be untrue. I have no chains. Why look for myself? I have far better
things to do with my time.
Like?
Old Man Wolverine #1- Nothing to say, not going to try. Time
travel genre, to change things before they get worse, revenge for future insults.
Fantasy cult of personality, avoids the urgency of now.
Play here children. The house is on fire, but isn’t it so
deliciously warm?
Why bother to play?
Childhood is over.
Endless rut of my own routine/perception wants me to stay, but I break away.
In purgatory’s circle you hear nothing, cept the sound of
your own voice bouncing off the boomerang walls.
I used to live here, and stare at those walls.
Now I visit, and see where the dust grows.
Down town in the library, closed terminals, there’s a
metaphor there.
Now nearer back home, the crumbling old Link Centre with new
entrance system. Interior the same, access now modernised. Another metaphor?
Something about modern change being on the surface level only? I suspect,
actually, I know.
And I sit here complaining to purgatory thin Australian walls.
Hit this, back in my face, dull-hurts.
A joke played upon myself, for want of something to do.
It's okay.
Time slips away.
But I see the exit.
Oh look, a post in purgatory.
A stain on the wall.
Scratch and sniff?
I turn.
Leave.
Yes or What?
Ascending.
