Monday, August 24, 2009

You could make a decent soup with that...

I expected white knuckles, a shudder perhaps, a tear? Anything but the void, the hollow thudding of my own unfeeling heart. anhedonia, what does it know of its own joy. terror. fear. void. How is it that a human can feel nothing, real nothingness, surely to be human is to feel, Bill?
Am I less than human, is that my place? Or can it be more? More than human. No, more than nothing, not I.
Standing at the very edge of the train platform, curling my toes within my sensible shoes, not out of any feeling of fear, nor any feeling at all, yet out of the distant realisation that there should be fear, that if fear was indeed present there would be a reflexive curling of the toes. automaton.
But here it is Bill, it was not you, nor Annie and Sam, but the thought of failure, the scrubbing, that held me back, for if the train was to sever not my life, ha, life, what kind of life, but simply one useless maladroit hand, or a leg, thick misshapen form, the remaining parts would have to clean up after, after the failure of it all.
Swabbing the blood of one severed limb with the disgusted muscle of the other, how terribly macabre.
and yet, still, I do not feel.

No comments: