The Process by Neil Rothstein

– I’d like to rip myself apart to prove to you how I work. Standing on the edge of a mental precipice, and the choices seemed to overwhelm me, each colour invading my sequence, I started to externalize every thought, the actions of others no longer had any meaning to me, indeed the forms and shapes around me started to lose all definition, by will alone I was able to disconnect from reality, the forms that had haunted my every second began to resemble a Rothko wilderness, I became aware of time as a shape, a benign floating fog hovering and penetrating, fucking the life from the world. Interaction with the modulus of life seemed irrelevant and pointless, I was still aware of my own mass and the mass of others – when asked or interrogated about this I claimed idiocy and walked away. I began to stare hopelessly at garage doors and to caress the sides of buildings, I interred myself underneath cars and chewed on small stones all in a way to distract myself. But I was very sure a madness was setting in, a delicious form of inevitable insanity, everywhere I turned I saw magpies following me, their dead infant shrieks a soundtrack, added at no one’s request, a hollow and unusual decision had to be made. In my dreams I felt haunted by time, a feeling which disgusted and intrigued me, I needed to feel precise, razor edged, if I was to carry on unscathed, but the malaise and appeal externalizing everything became too much, and of course I succumbed, purposely exiting reality I sat down knowing I could halt this process, that I still had a modicum of control, until I unfocussed my eyes  and reality floated away, and with it all my guilt and excess, figures from the past stood tall, but with each second reality floated away, and like a dog on a raft in a lake, I drifted away, pushing away momentary panic and imaginary soundscapes, the precision needed for silence began –

Published by peace is illegal

I am a writer of pornography, of politics and murder.

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