Once I had finished the third version of The Last Revolution, and had edited PAM to a standard I felt I could not improve, I sensed I had been violated by other-worldly forces – as though I had been used to create a work of their invention, and left as nothing but an empty shell, devoid of purpose, when the task had been completed.
At other times, I would assume other-worldly forces had little or nothing to do with my work – that a paradise on Earth was merely a delusion, and I had only been passing the hours of a ruined life by writing, as I feared may have been the case from the moment I began writing PAM.
I became deeply depressed. I wouldn’t shower or leave the house, and end up lying on my bed, surrounded by ash, cigarette stubs and other debris.
My relationship with my children weakened day by day, and I became obsessed with thoughts of suicide. I attempted to hang myself on the back of the bathroom door with a Kenyan prayer scarf, using the suspension method, but raised my weight at the last moment – just as I felt I was losing consciousness.
I stood for some time, in front of the bathroom mirror, looking into my watering eyes and at my bloated, red face and marks around my neck. Whenever I showered in the days that followed, I would give myself the creeps by imagining I had succeeded, and picture my body hanging on the door, in an increasing state of decomposition.
I began writing to hackers who I believed were hacking my pc. I wrote to them as though they were young; the generation I hoped would start the revolution, but soon became bored as my writing elicited no response – I assumed they would be able to communicate with me by remotely accessing my pc, and wondered why they didn’t.
So, I began to write poetry instead;
A necklace of fingers hangs around his thick neck
His home’s built from sailors who have been shipwrecked
His porridge bowl’s a skull of a birth strangled babe
From horror and hell his home he has made
He digs up graves and steals gold teeth
Sells bunches of flowers plucked from funeral wreaths
Steals what he likes from those who are blind
Everyone says he is most unkind
But late at night, when all are asleep
Into the forest he silently creeps
And with all of the money he’s made from his sin
He builds a grand castle for all to live in
I am a tiger, trapped in a cage
Pacing restless circles, boiling with rage
Regarding the people I’d like to eat
Pointing and staring, oh what a treat!
To be able to reach them, give them all a bite
Chase them around, fill them with fright
Round them all up, bundle them in a cage
And watch them pace restless circles, boiling with rage.
Now it is time for me to die
For sad and slow my time flies
I take a rope and find a tree,
All I need for the death of me
So much we need, to be able to live
What we must take, and what we must give
How easy our lives would be
If all we needed was a rope and a tree
The misunderstood artist hangs himself from a tree
Against a backdrop of sunset, the scene looks pretty
My creativity is dead
Resting in bed
A coin on each eye
So it won’t cry
I am going to die
I have no choice in the matter
I was given a ticket to the afterlife on the day I was born.
I have no idea what the afterlife will be like
But I often feel I would like to go there
With the hope it will be better than here.
The ticket to the afterlife has no date
But I may fill that in myself.
To do so is frowned upon
Until the date
Not upon their ticket.
Does the ticket collector frown
Upon tickets where the date
Has been filled in by the ticket holder?
Does one receive a fine
Or something of the sort
For filling in the date one’s self?
What is the bureaucracy of death?
If we knew the afterlife is an unimaginably beautiful place
And one may fill in the date one’s self
Without receiving a fine
Or something of the sort
Would we all leave at once
Or change the world into an unimaginably beautiful place?