Rough extract from ‘Those Primary Colours’
- And if I have wept, amidst the grime of emotion, it has been while I slept. For I have not knowingly shed except on the quiet seat, harbouring the turd of my bread diet. Those tears are unavoidable. I come across them three times a week. And yet, for all their familiarity, they are never the same. From tear to tear never one as the other. And I, overcome in the struggle for my own existence, discard them. Evening was beginning to settle. For a time the world looked like it would remain in evening. - Imagine that. The mind accurst with scheme. It is evening that brings about scheme. In the morning we vent spleen. In the afternoon we clean. In the evening we scheme. In the night…in the night we are unfaithful to ourselves. It is the flagellator who dreams. But ah! How do you feel about your thoughts? How do I feel about my thoughts? Well of course I have the benign and the malignant. But always in hours or days. The expressions of my soul are yet uncovered. I remember what I thought when I readCompany. I thought, there is a man not like myself. A man to break up the second. I, at one sitting passing over days, never to know the skeleton; the core; the truth. And he, splitting the molecules. I called him ‘The Grain Counter’ after that. Then I revised it. I called him ‘The Atom.’ And in turn I called Joyce ‘The Universe.’ And I settled on that, until I realised… Ah this evening is passing with the usual fever of dull. And I, abandoned in the dull. Abandoned in the progression of self-sufficient, self-maintaining self. If I could count it would hurt. And this evening lacks the wind that would flush out this still-death stagnant swamp. A curlew wept. And in the distance another, and in turn this answer rendered the first not a weep but a rejoice. The water lulled, broke against small rocks and smoothed along the lightly sanded banks. Its colour was an admission to unforgiving death, but it was still. - Oh, quench my thirst and spoil not my desire to be loved eternally. Grant onto me those blessed pleasures. <span> </span>In the cover of the foliage talons were dissecting field mice. Death was beautifully sustaining life. And life was forever sustaining death. Both both. - Am I the slave of my creator? Am I not the slave of myself? Am I not a master? The curlew called again but nothing answered. - Death prevails. The fox is its own master. And I its admirer. Yet who is my admirer? And who is my destroyer?
