A Few Feet

‘It’s so easy to die, isn’t it?’

‘How so?’

‘You just step off this pavement and onto the road now, and you’ll see what I’m talking about.’


‘You’re actually feet away from death now, you know.’

‘Well, if you start thinking that way, then we’re always feet away from death. When you stand beside a railway track, when you lean over a roof, when you cook your food, you’re always feet away from death, you know.’

‘When I cook my food?’

‘Yeah, if you sat on the oven for a minute you might be dead. So when you are feet away from it cooking, you are feet away from death.’

‘That’s a stupid idea.’

‘You introduced it.’


‘I’ll tell you something?’


‘We’re never feet away from death, you know, even when we are standing on a pavement and there’s cars whizzing by at ninety miles an hour. You know you’re dead if you step off that pavement there, because the cars won’t be able to stop. You stand feet away from it, and yet you are more than that distance away from death. You are miles, legions, universes away from your death.’

‘How’s that?’

‘It’s easier to make a trip around the world, you know, than walk those few feet and step off the pavement. You’ll never let yourself do it. It’s impossible. However much possible it may be physically, when it comes to what’s possible in the inner world, it’s only a trip around the world that is. Those few feet are impossible for you to walk. It’s harder, much harder than going for a vacation on Mars. It’s not a few feet, kid, it’s millions of uncharted, unchartable miles before you, those few feet. Your mind won’t walk it, it refuses to have anything to do with it, and it’s just a huge unwalkable gap in the end. It’s not three feet; it’s a whole uncrossable universe. You’re as safe at home as when you’re standing beside a busy street like that. In either case you are the same distance away from death. Now if you’re talking about this guy that comes along and bumps into you and you fall onto the street and an eighteen-wheeler comes along and cooks applesauce with your head, well, that won’t of course happen at home. But you can see, I’m talking about conscious decision over here. It’s as unlikely that you’ll take the car from your home and drive up the mountain road and drive straight through the fence over the cliff as it is that you’ll walk these few feet and step off this pavement here. You see my point now?’




‘What do you think of it? What do you think of my explanation?’

‘You talk a lot.’


‘A real lot. And that too trash. You talk a lot of trash. I need to get home now. Bye.’

‘Hey! Turn around! Don’t walk backwar—’




You Know?

<This is older cheese than the date says. It was sitting and rotting on my machine, so I decided to post it. I hate stink in my machine. I hate stink. I hate stinking pieces of shit and would hate to be one. Anyways, that’s a different line of thought…>

You know what I was doing today? Do you have any idea? Of course you don’t — and why would you? You have your own life to take care of so obviously you wouldn’t have time for mine, would you? Now let’s not mope about that any more. Today I took a handbill into the bathroom and put it on the water. I poured water on it with my cupped hand till it sank and then when it was wet and soggy I tore it to tiny little pieces and all these pieces started floating about in the water and looked so pretty. Then I got the had-shower into the water and although I couldn’t see the water coming out of it, I could see the bits of paper rushing away from the shower’s mouth and creating a little cyclone inside the water. Then I put my hand in the water and churned it round and round till I created a little whirlpool of sorts. When the swirling water finally came to rest, all the bits of paper had gathered into a neat mound in the centre, and I stared at it for some time. Then I put my hand in the water again and swayed it around till the pieces of paper were all over the water again. Then I did something else. I bathed in that water, and when I was done, there were bits of paper all over me. In my hair, too. It was funny. So I bathed in clean water again and I washed all the pieces of paper on the floor down the hole with the shower so no one would know.

If you want to know why I did all this, well, my results were out today, and I’m a bit disappointed.

I’m weird.



Okay, I’ve got a cold. Nasty cold. Woke up in the middle of the night (midnight, to be exact, or at least a quarter to it) to find that Nemesis had arrived. It was the biggest storm ever. Father came to wake me up to unplug the computer because there was frequent lightning outside. And were they loud! I unplugged the computer, and father went downstairs. Then I found him calling from inside my tummy, as he always does, quiet but persisting — not my father, but the child in me. So instead of going back to sleep I went to the roof and watched the storm for a few moments. The rain poured in sheets of white, blinding out everything beyond the surrounding houses. Every few seconds a peal of lightning lit up everything like a momentary huge electric white flashlight, and in that infinitesimal moment you could see every single drop of rain hanging in mid-air, sharp and bright, frozen in time. Then everything would go dark again and the drops would get lost in the crowd and turn into just a huge sound and their individuality would melt into oblivion in the dark.

That’s when I think I got the cold.

When I returned to my room, there was water on the floor. It had climbed down the stairs from the roof and wanted to check out my room. I didn’t mind. But I already had a cold. Small price to pay for being able to watch such a huge flash camera go click click in the heavens and light up the raindrops before they went touchdown.

Growing up is like the evening sky changing colour. You keep staring at it and you notice nothing. Then all at once, you turn and you see it has changed colour when you weren’t looking (or is it actually something else that’s the matter?) and you can only stare more and wonder at the strangeness of it. And yeah, you also strangely forget what the colours before the current one were. It’s the same thing with growing up.

And hey, I just grew up in terms of some things. For one thing, in cardiac matters, I think I’ve grown up. I know the meaning of commitment and self-analysis and contentment and gratitude.

And yeah, the pillow I sleep on doesn’t shake when it laughs, unlike my other pillow…

Don’t ask questions. The answers belong to us. Us? Well… hey, I said no questions.


Please Don’t Shout


Please don’t shout; I’m listening.

You won’t have to repeat; I understand.

You won’t have to hurt me; I’ll obey.

But when I see it’s not right, what you’ve been teaching me,

God save you.


So let me have my slice of the window to the evening

My share of laughter and her warm breath

In a cold night.

Let me have a life, besides the lessons,

And I’ll listen, understand, obey.

But when I see that you want to control my life,

Turn me into a machine,

God save you.


What you don’t see beyond your pages of education

Is that I’m alive, awake, breathing;

As dangerous as a mountain-wolf.

Don’t think that your shots worked: I’m not unconscious.

I’m just acting like a pet dog because you give me something to learn.

But when I see you draw a collar from your pocket,

God save you.


I’m a complete, working living system.

I have emotions, determination and secret tears.

What you have forgotten is that I also have dreams.

That makes me dangerous.

But know and understand me, and you shall be part of my prayers of thanks.

As I shall be part of your life.

Forget that I can laugh and love and cry and dream,

And I can be part of your death.


God save you then.




<against the current>


This here you see, this stuff here, this structure — hey you listening or what? Are you listening to me? What do I look like, a miserable old psychopath shouting his head off for no reason? Shouting his head off here on the pavement with all these people watching, for no reason? What do you take me for, eh? Listen to me now, yeah. Listen. I want you all ears, and don’t look away for a single moment while I make my point, coz I hate that, you know what, I hate that. I’d much rather be home feeding my dog here than standing around shouting on the pavement expecting you to listen. So listen.

This here thing you see, this structure, this network, this, this — this protocol, these codes, this — oh Jesus gimme a word — yeah, — what better word — this matrix — you listening right? Yeah, so we gotta destroy this matrix, you know. That’s my plan, you see. Just, you know, bust it. Stamp on it with your sneakers and it will be gone before you know it. Yeah, listen to me now, coz my here brain’s simply surging with ideas. What you gotta do is this — you just, you know — you listening sure? — yeah, you gotta stop believing in this matrix. You just gotta stop believing it, stop having faith in it any more. You see what I’m trying to say here? You don’t? Rats! I’m talking about the society, you old idiot! This whole structure here, this network, this — this community, this matrix. It’s good I know, or we wouldn’t live, but I bet you don’t know its flip side. I do. Yeah, blimey dude, I do. You wanna know what the flip side is? Well, it’s just that it fills your head with crazy ideas all the time. Crazy ideas like pigs can’t fly. Tell me here, sonny, ever since you learnt to talk, haven’t they ordered you to listen silently? Haven’t they told you over the rim of their spectacles to sit there quiet and pretty while they belch out their stinkin’ old list of protocols and — and rulezz? Rules that never existed except in dirty little chambers inside their minds? They teach you to follow the footsteps of other people, to go sniffing their venerable tail-coats down the stinkin’ alleys that’s been trodden bare by hundreds of thousands of millions of other people before you, and never to look at a different direction, your own direction, and hope to walk that way someday. Why, of course they wouldn’t do it. They want you to grow up just like the umpteen losers grew up before you, esteemed, approved, respected, and bunches of stinkin’ old rule-loving boring vegetables. It’s because they hate dreams, son. They are afraid of possibilities beyond the obvious convention. That’s why they raise you in this disguised slaughter-house called the society and kill your soul slowly, yeah, slowly and silently, so that you don’t suddenly get hurt and realize what’s going on. They have you in anesthesia, dude. You are not even completely awake. You are like a Frankenstein here, brain-washed and mechanical. You go to school and don’t talk to that guy with his guitar and weird jokes and open laughter and girlfriend because your mama and papa said not to, and you don’t wear foreign clothes coz they make you look too good for social approval, and you don’t throw even the shortest glance at porno except the bra ad on TV. You are afraid of a long stare or smile from the opposite sex coz mama and papa said this is not the time and if you let those ideas into your head they’ll turn you out of the house. You come home and study at your table and go to sleep at bedtime. What you don’t know is all the time is bedtime for you, coz you are damn ****ing asleep! And Jesus knows, or whoever God is — I don’t care, honestly — He alone knows when you are gonna wake. So why don’t you just go wagging your tail back home and forget all about this because they don’t want you to know, do they? They don’t want you to dream, freakin’ bastards. They make you believe that you have taken your life for hire. Oh, sorry. Sorry I said your life. It’s hardly your life, eh, innit? You never knew that you own your life, did you? No one told you; of course they didn’t. And telling you now won’t do you any good, will it, coz you’ve already lost it. You’ve already sold your life to the society, to the — the matrix, and you are plain living out someone else’s dreams. You no longer remember what you wanted to do with your life because they have numbed that part of your head long ago. But listen to me now. This here thing you do everyday is none of what your heart tells you to do. Every second of every minute here you’re doing what everyone else tells you to do, what everyone else does. You have borrowed your dream from your parents’, your objective from their orders, and you are just damn living a hired life. They’ve given it to you for hire, dude, the matrix, the society. They want you to keep it safe and not scratch it or dent it or break it or lose it coz they know at the back of their heads that it belongs to them. You’re just the object they have appointed to live out the life. You barely own it. You can’t bounce your life or swing it round or throw it into the air and do whatever you want with it, coz it’s not yours. You can’t pay for it if you break it, can you, and then they’ll look at you with those often-practised cold eyes and throw you out of the society coz you dared believe that you own your life. So why don’t you just go back to the life you’ve been living now and pretend it’s yours and keep fulfilling objective after objective, realizing dream after dream, until one day you just go phut! — silently, without too much noise and without letting too many people know except the ones that own your life — why don’t you just go phut and realize when you are falling asleep for the last time that the objectives you have fulfilled were actually orders, the dreams you have realized were just someone else’s, and the life you have lived was hardly yours.

And why don’t you just rest in peace after that, coz it’s bedtime. It’s been bedtime all along.