i'm a self taught artist from the shingly shoreline of dungeness in kent and now living back in winchelsea beach, east sussex.
/
Create or get your
very own MySpace LayoutsHe wistfully imagined the two cars colliding and his own flesh ripping open as his neck snapped back in the force of the impact. He could hear the cracking vertabrae above the sickening sound of buckling steel and scraping bone. He could picture his body being sliced into crimson ribbons as it exploded through the windscreen and then, with torturously dislocated limbs, coming to rest on the raw, dank, bloodthirsty black asphalt. He looked down upon his broken worthless carcass as all around him wept and wailed in unison with the deadened grey sky. He inhaled the giddying murderousness of it all like the first toke on a spliff, and then smiled. He was an ugly, decrepit little spastic mute in the guise of a healthy, handsome twenty three year old. Every fresh heartbeat pumped more clean, oxygenated blood through his noxious brain and into his muscular physique, contaminating the lot. It was as if a parasite, a tumor, had taken root in his skull and was unstoppable in its quest to eat away at every semblance of normal and acceptable thought and behaviour.
Will no longer had a solid grip on reality. The heavily fortified boundaries that used to stand tall against wild imagination had eroded. His awareness of his place in any given moment was shot to pieces. He felt like a back seat driver in his own body. He viewed everything as if it all came through the miniature monitor of a camcorder. It was all second-hand. He watched himself participating in life. All faith in himself was lost. He had no faith in his memories - the word "memory" was just a joke. Will couldn't pick out a single snippet from his back catalogue of personal experiences and say, with any self-assurance, that it had really happened. He had no faith in his actions or reactions. He had no faith in his own thoughts and ideas. Everything, absolutely everything, every single thing was a struggle, a conflict against the seemingly inevitable end to the processes and free-flowing functions that made him a fully signed up member of the superior human race.
That fatefull night just over a year ago. The journey in the back of the police van to the psychiatric ward. The Q and A with the nurses. The overwhelming desire to shout "Take me, I'm yours!" and the subsequent hush-hush about the whole unfortunate misunderstanding. Ever since that night Will had ceased to be a common or garden depressive and had graduated with flying colours into the echelons of maddom. EXCERPTS FROM "SUNNY AFTERNOON" by J.P.B.
