Therapy. Version 2. Or Crack.

“I see you’ve cracked.” The therapist says, tilting her body on the big computer chair.
“Haven’t we all?” I ask
“No. Do I look like I’ve cracked?” She asks, tilting herself forward and spinning in the chair to show me her entire body.
“The night is young. I can crack you if you want.”
“And how would you do that?” She asks.
“Headbutt you.”
“Then you’d crack more and we’d both just be a gooey mess.”
We both draw smirks on our shells.
“You are being inappropriate perhaps, Miss Therapist.” I etch a grin on my shell. “Do you remember when we all had cracks, out of the virtue of being human?”
She draws another smirk on her face, “Are you using a euphemism?”
I draw raised eye brows on my face, “Well the euphemism sure was implied. But I also mean metaphorically.”
She tilts her body forwards and looks at me curiously, “Explain.”
“Do you remember your first heartbreak, Miss?”
She nods her body to gesture yes.
“So do I. That was a crack on our psyche. But then we moved on, perhaps we were even stronger afterwards. You know when all was said and done.”
“I guess.”
“We used to crack inside and sometimes we had wounds to show for it outside. But we stitched ourselves back up.”
“We did.” She agrees.
“But the generation just after me, hell probably even my own age to some extent, crack and never get up again.”
“hmm.”
“We’re more fragile than we ever were. While trying to be stronger than we ever were.” I knock on my shell, and another crack appears, “See what I mean?”
“You are so cynical, Sam.”
“What you call cynicism is just the truth, Miss.” I lean my body forwards, “It’s also just evolution.”
“I’m supposed to help you.” She leans forwards and replaces her current default expression with a sympathetic look. “But honestly, I don’t think you can be helped.” She etches a sad face on her shell.
“I know.” I agree. “Our shells are just too fragile.”
“But they’re so full of calcium.” She says with the scripted optimism therapists are given.
“Which is certainly good for the birds.”
She looks at me puzzled.
“We can feed ourselves to the birds.”
“Very morbid.”
“Perhaps it’s time for the dinosaurs to rise again.”

For more like this:
Therapy

All in the head

Muted

Therapy

“So, Sam how are you feeling today?”
We both glow brightly in the dark room, I want to touch my face,  but I’m afraid I’ll accidently press a button. “I’m feeling an emptiness that is full.”
My therapist changes position slightly in her chair; she’s trying to tilt her head in that human way therapists used to do. “Uh huh. Tell me more.”
That’s in the therapist’s script or dictionary or whatever. “What can I say. It’s everything, and it’s nothing. But there is no connection.”
“Connection to whom?” My therapist asks curiously; I imagine she’d be raising a brow if we were still human.
“To the world, to life, to humans. We think we’re connected, but then we come away empty, don’t we? Just a screen full of emojis.”
“What emoji represents how you feel right now?”
“None can adequately portray anything.”
The therapist nods her body. “Yes, Yes. But you’d probably say the same about words, right?”
“Yes. No words, no emoji’s, hell even no action can quite express what I so often feel. That’s why, no disrespect, therapy is bullshit.”
Her cartoon like legs dangle off the chair, “I think the problem we have is many people have been comfortable putting their brains into their phones, but you’re not quite there yet.”
“Nobodies quite there yet.”
“Isn’t that a massive assumption?”
“No. The evidence is right here. Have you been to Tumblr?”
The therapist looks sad. “Yes. I’ve seen it.”
“They’ve put their brains in electronic devices, miss. And then they’re looking for a reason and well let’s be frank, there is none. So they’re fighting for causes some of them have a grain of truth, but they’ve mutated the grain.”
My therapist nods her body again. She is also reluctant to touch her face, just in case she too accidently touches a button.
“We’re dotting our I’s, Miss.”
She shows me a confused emoji, then says, “Like,” and shows a cross-eyed emoji.
“We’re dotting our I’s because we can’t quite capitalise on individuality, though we’re trying harder than we ever have before.”
The therapist’s screen shows moving dots as she considers this. “I can’t say I understand the way in which you express yourself.”
“That is nothing new, Miss.”
“Sam. You’ll never be happy living like this.”
I glow my full body towards her, my cartoon like legs dangling also. “Happy wasn’t ever a constant or ever will be. There is no such thing as a happy life.”
“That sounds very cynical.” She shows an emoji with a flat expression.
“Perhaps what you call cynism is just the truth.”
She ponders a moment, her legs kicking out underneath her like a child’s on a stool that is too tall for her, “How can we end this therapy session?”
I bend my body, so I glow towards the floor, the light reflecting from the ground back to me, making it too bright to exist. “We can’t.”

All in the head

I forgot I’m not supposed to go on rollercoasters. Still here I sit like a beer glass on a coaster, I’m shaking inside my teeth are chattering. It’s not cold. I’ve got adrenaline through my viens 10 times a dozen. I’m about to have a heart attack. I’m fizzing up, I’m frothing at the head and I’m running over like a liquid. The rollercoaster goes upsidedown, everything looks right this way down. I throw up my guts over some innocent person just walking along minding their own business. “If my head falls off,” I start, to the stranger beside me, “It’s okay.”
“Um.” He shifts his eyes from side to side.
“Your eyes looked better where they were originally.”
“Um…”
“The doctors say everythings in my head anyway.” I grin, sick smeared round my mouth.

Muted

Yellowing fluorescent strips of light line the ceiling, a sickly smokers hue emanates through the entire building. The walls are grimy with trails of dirt trodden in from hundreds of different pairs of feet. The corridors radiate the smell or rain covered backpacks and hair. One kid smells like he’s used his dad’s entire aftershave and deodorant in one go; his attempt at playing adult. Piss flavoured laughs match the yellow hue that surrounds us. We’re crowded like sardines in a tin, I barely have to move my legs to move through the corridors to my classroom, I just get pushed along in an ocean of sweaty, smelly teenagers. Lord help us, these are the future. We’re the fucking future. When I finally reach my classroom 1A, I then have to wait in line for the inept IT teacher to turn up. He has bad B.O. Wears round glasses and looks like a serial killer. I want to kick him in the balls. The other kids are nattering away, some of them turn to look at me, laugh and whisper amongst themselves again. And some lads throw a football at the wall, right next to my head. The idea is, they make it look like they’re heading for my face, but actually, they’re just gonna hit the wall. It’s funny because it just is okay? Especially because it means my wooden stance might just slightly quiver and my face might show some expression that I usually try to keep so locked up and out of sight of anyone. No one wants to see my face making appearances of a normal human being, I learnt that long ago. “Oh my god, don’t smile if you’re gonna look like that.” Is a common thing I’ve heard throughout my life. They laugh as my nerve endings send signals to my face that I can’t stop, the little minuscule expressions portraying my anxieties of the ball maybe hitting my face. It’s a reflex. I’m not human enough to have reflexes, it looks funny on me. I’m wincing, and I can’t help it. I turn my wooden frame, so they’re greeted with my side on profile. They roll the ball along the floor towards my feet, I’m supposed to kick it back. But, I’ve also learnt that any action I make is just a cause for derision. I want to kick it back. I tell myself, ‘Kick it back, they’ll laugh at you either way. Don’t you get that yet? They’ll laugh at you whatever you do or as the case is, don’t do.’ I know I can’t win, but I’m frozen inside. I will not kick that fucking ball. It’s at my feet. They stare and laugh. I stand woodenly. This is my life. My sister walks past, her face blushing at the sight of me. She knows I sort of resemble her, she knows it’s clear we’re related. She blushes, and I see how embarrassing I am to her. I ignore her like she wants me to, she goes by quickly. I can almost hear the thoughts in her head, ‘please God, no one pick me out as being related to that thing.’
I’m in a piss-stained school, with teachers that smell of piss. My education is hard with stale piss, it’s useless it’s pathetic.
“Cat got your tongue.” A girl says, giggling.
I want to reply, “No. I got a new tongue from the body shop.” And then I pull my tongue out of my mouth, take it out, and wipe my face with it, it foams up and smells of red berries.

The answer: White Noise.

When you ask me what I want, all i hear is white noise in my head. And it’s funny because if you hadn’t asked i’d be able to obscure the white noise with more white noise. But you insist on asking me what I want, or worse still, asking me what I want to do. And the answer is in the white noise. I don’t want to do anything. I think I just want to go to sleep and never wake up.

Grinding gear

I don’t wanna be at the top of the tower
I don’t wanna live in a tower at all
I just want to find peace in my mind
But that’s just another lie
I’ve been sold, to believe
That I could one day achieve
Peace on earth inside my mind
But there is nothing peaceful
About human kind
Or any other animal
Cause the world is sick and cruel
You won’t catch me saying it’s beautiful
I don’t really want a place in this mechanism
I don’t want to be a grinding gear in this
I don’t want to be mechanical or animal
I don’t want to be in this chain of command
I don’t wanna choose life, choose a fucking widescreen TV
Or a fucking wife with a picket fence
To fence us in suburbia
I don’t wanna give an inch
Fuck it
I don’t even wanna be the grinding gear
With pen to paper, I don’t wanna be here

Thought Grime #2

“Park here, will you.” The chief detective ordered, flicking ash out the window.
“Sir.” Hugh nodded his acknowledgement and parked up neatly.
The man that answered the door to them had puffy eyes hidden behind his glasses, peering out from behind his door, “Hello, what do you want?” He said in a shaky voice.
The chief detective held up his badge, his foot already on the man’s doorstep, “care to let us in?” It wasn’t a question it was an order. The man stepped aside and opened the door further for the two men to come in
“Care to tell me your names?” He asked, hobbling to his armchair.
“This here is Hugh.” The detective pointed towards Hugh.
“And you are?”
The detective loosened the buttons on his coat, “people call me Grim.” He tried a friendly smile, but his scarred face and piercing eyes gave off a sinister air whatever he did with himself.
“That’s a nice name.” The old man said, not convincingly.
“It’s pretty grim.” Grim grinned, showing white teeth with just a little yellowing.
“Are you here about the…” the man dared utter the word.
“The?” Grim asked, determined the man should ask for himself.
The man’s eyes shifted behind his puffed up skin and bit his bottom lip nervously, “you know,” he looked embarrassed, “the marijuana.”
Hugh looked towards Grim, and Grim returned a glance, both their lips quivering into faint smiles, “no, but now that you mention it,” Hugh smiled at the man, “where is this marijuana you speak of?”
The man slumped down in his seat, and shook his head in a fast shaky motion, “no! No! No!” He slammed his walking stick on the carpet, “please,” he began to plead, “don’t take it from me.” He looked up at Hugh, who was still stood, “please, it’s all I have to take the damn pain away.” He held out his hand before Hugh and spread his arthritic fingers out, “see,” his hand tremored, “so much pain.” He cried.
Hugh smiled sympathetically at the man, “don’t worry, I was only asking in case you had enough for us to have some.” Hugh winked.
The old man startled into silence for a moment started a throaty laugh, “don’t trick an old man like that!” He wiped his mouth and continued laughing.
“So you haven’t heard?” Grim asked, sceptically.
“Heard what?” The old man asked, appearing genuine.
“We’re here because there was a gruesome murder last night.”
The old man slumped back in his chair, closed his eyes tight behind his glasses, his shaking hand on his lips, “murder?” He asked, his tremor had since worsened. “Murder?” He repeated in disbelief, “round here?”
“Right in this neighbourhood,” Grim confirmed.
“What, right here?” The old man pointed outside his window, “so close to my house?”
“I’m afraid so,” Grim crossed one leg over the other, “I’d be right in assuming you didn’t hear anything last night?”
“You’d be right; I go to bed at nine sharp!”
“And so it’s safe to assume you didn’t witness anything?” Hugh asked, running his finger across a dusty shelf and inspecting his finger.
“Yes, you’d be right to assume that! What happened? Who was killed?”
“We’re still figuring out the first question,” Grim answered.
“It was a Frederick Archer.” Hugh finished.
The old man was visibly shaken by the name, tears pooling at his puffy eyes, “not Frederick.” He slouched forwards in his chair and sobbed loudly. “Not Frederick.” He wailed.
Grim and Hugh shared a glance, “you knew Frederick then?” Grim asked.
“He brought me my shopping, he..” the old man gulped, took off his glasses and wiped at his face, “he did everything for me.” He looked out the window, something about looking outside only set him off more, “no,” he shook his head, “it can’t be!” He turned to look at both detectives pleadingly, “it can’t be!”
“We’re sorry for your loss,” Hugh said softly.

Thought Grime #1

I am God, for I am the omnipotent narrator, I see, hear, and tell. These characters are as real as you and I, for I have brought them breath in all that follows:

There is a man, whom, shall we call, Frederick? Yes, it is a rather nice name! Indeed, let’s start with Frederick. Just last week Frederick was swimming in a lake, his arse crack and cheeks the first thing one would see, if they looked down from the balconies on the opposite street. And as he got out of the lake, stretching his naked body in all his splendour, had you looked from the balconies mentioned previously, you would see his torso and nipples erect from the cold water. His penis gleamed with the reflection of street lamps as water dripped down from the head onto the puddle he’d left. And had you been sat on one of those balconies that fateful night, you would have witnessed a death so grotesque you would be stumbling to find your words. For a man, who remains nameless and indeed faceless wormed his way up to the lake, in complete silence, Just as an owl seemingly glides towards its prey. The detectives knocked on neighbouring houses and streets the next day, trying to get a vision of that most bloody night! When they knocked on dear old Alices door, she was consumed absolutely from the sheer fright of it. “I saw it all!” she exclaimed, eyes wide and a tremor throughout her body.
“Sit down, Miss, ” the main detective said, “Now tell us, what exactly did you see?”
Alice sat down and put her head in her hands, “Blood, so much blood.”
“Anything before that?” The other detective asked, a smaller man than the first.
“Yes, Frederick was swimming in the lake.” She stops talking at once, as a thought enters her head and a naughty smile almost creeps on her face ‘what a time for such thoughts’ she said to herself silently, scolding herself.
“Please, carry on,” the bigger detective said, looking serious.
“He got out of the lake, he was stretching when he….” she lifted her eyes from her shoes, what they were doing on her shoes and not on her; you’ll never know. Anyhow, I digress, she lifted her eyes and put them in their rightful place, looking towards the officer with an intensity that could sting, “He, that man, that monster sneaked up behind him and….” She covered her mouth and shifted her eyes, water beginning to pour out of them. “Well you know the rest.” she sniffed.
“No, Miss, we don’t.” The main detective said, his jaw clenching with agitation.
“Well you’ve seen the mess!” she hissed.
“Yes, but I’m asking what you saw. I am a witness only to the aftermath, not the crime.” He reminded her, “please,” he nodded his head towards her “Do go on.”
“Well this man who, who I couldn’t make out very well,”
“Let me stop you there,” the chief detective interrupted, “how do you know it’s a man if you can’t make the killer out?”
“It was a man alright!” Alice exclaimed, her nostrils flaring, “no woman would do such a thing,” she shook her head, “not like that, anyway!”
“You’d be surprised,” the chief detective said.
“Are you here to question me as a suspect, or do you want to hear my account of the nightmare?” She asked assertively.
“I’m just trying to get a clear picture.”
“Oh, well next time I’ll make sure to take a photo of any crime I witness, shall I?” What a sassy character Alice was turning out to be.
“Okay,” the detective sighed. Meanwhile, the other smaller detective was pacing around the lounge inspecting pictures up on the wall. “Carry on.”
“I couldn’t make him out, but I saw something like a pair of scissors, but bigger,” she tapped at her skull, “ah what do you call them?” she closed her eyes tight, “Ah bugger! What do ya call them damn things?”
“Garden shears, perhaps, Mrs..” the smaller detective said, letting the word Mrs roll on his tongue as a question.
“I’m not married.”
“Miss?” He let that word roll too.
“Miss Cleaves”
“Okay, Miss Cleaves”
“Yes now we have that formality out the way, what was your suggestion?”
“Garden shears.”
Alice Cleaves eyes lit up, “Yes!” she slapped her thigh, “Yes! That is what they were, garden shears!”
“So let me get this straight” the bigger detective started, scribbling something in a notebook, “You couldn’t make the perpetrator out, but you could make out that the weapon of choice was a pair of shears?”
“Or something like them!”
“Then what did you see?” The shorter one asked, interrupting his own inspection of a family portrait, turning back to it as he waited for an answer.
“Well, the next thing I know, I hear this startled sound, across between a stifled scream and a sob and then his head was cut clean off!” She looks down at her shoes, “Oh god, it’s so awful!” she cries.
“I see you like gardening,” the smaller of the two detectives said now stood at the doors leading onto her balcony, he opened the doors and pulled out a pair of shears from some dirt in a plant pot.
The detective sat on the couch in front of her, looked at his partner then towards Alice, “do you mind if we bag them?”
She was visibly shaken at such an idea, “you’re treating me like a suspect again!”
The detective smiled, “Everyone is a suspect, Miss Cleaves. Even lovely ladies such as yourself.”
“You can’t seriously believe I could…” she pauses, possibly for effect, she shakes her head “do that.” she finishes in a whisper.
“I don’t believe, Miss Cleaves,” the detective said, “I don’t believe a single thing.”
“So what do you believe?” not realising the stupidity of her question, given what he had just said.
“As I said, I don’t believe anything.”
“But you must think I had something to do with it, to..” she rubs her forehead as if a headache is coming on, “to want to take them away,” she pointed at the shears, “for evidence!” she exclaimed.
“I don’t believe; I just look for evidence. I’m going by your word, scissor-like weapon, possibly shears, and what do we have here? A pair of shears, so one must investigate.”
“Well, you won’t find anything untoward with those.” She told them.
“Yes, one can hope, and I certainly do hope that is the case.” the detective smiles. “Now,” he turns to his partner, “Hugh, shall we?”
Hugh takes the shears and closes the door, “yes, very well.” He heads towards the front door, “Thank you for all your information, Miss Cleaves.”
Alice stands with her arms folded, looking at the bigger detective, “You’d do well to get manners like Hugh here.” she nods towards Hugh.
“Hugh’s young. He’ll learn one day.” the detective chuckles.

Hate me, so

Feelings are so…
Contradictory
That’s what haunts me so
It’s almost obligatory
To feel anger along with sympathy
Going round in circles in my mind
Till I can’t decide who is wrong or right
And it pains me to the ends of this earth
It sounds dramatic
But I feel it in my chest
It fucking HURTS!

And with me
It’s day in and day out
Just constant torment
And then I just want to scream and shout
Try to pacify my mind
Play guitar, watch a film
Tell myself just to focus on my life
But then I can’t let go
And I hate me, so

Day three I vow to make self-improvements
By day five, I slipped back or I never even made any movements
I can never remember
I just know I still hate me, so
Day six, I say, “Try again.”
And off I go, along this crazy train
Pacing along the tracks
Thinking “Did I move forwards, or did I go back?”
I can never remember.
I just know I still fucking hate me, so.

Get away!

I don’t have room for sympathy
For you
Or empathy
It’s been torture
All these times going round my head
Through cycles of anger and apologetic sorrow
I can’t do it anymore
Not today, not tomorrow
I cared too much
And you walk over me like I’m dirt on your shoe
I’m supposed to feel for you
“He’s ill” they say
Well, I can’t care anymore!
Get the fuck away!
GET THE FUCK AWAY